Of Valkyria, Darcsens, and the Holy Grail War
by Jarl of the North
Summary: When the Empire declares war upon Gallia, most assume it's a war over land or resources. However, the truth is not so simple. The few who know the truth are those who have received the spells known as Command Seals; those chosen to summon forth heroes from the past to do battle for the omnipotent wish granting device. The Holy Grail War has begun.


Author's Note; this story is meant to entertain, both the readers and myself. Nothing more. Nothing less; as such, anyone who has a problem with this story and has no constructive criticism to offer can either kiss my ass or leave. Constructive criticism is both accepted and heavily advised to be left. The story will contain characters from and for the Valkyria Chronicles franchise only; no characters from the Fate series will be introduced introduced. Except for maybe Kaleidoscope, but I'm not even convinced he counts as a Fate character, given how much he shows up in TYPE-MOON overall, so he's still up in the air.

I do not own TYPE-MOON, Valkyria Chronicles, or anything to do with either field. Nor do I own several of the OC's that will appear in this story; those belong to BlindFury the Ultimate. Other OC's however, I do own. Care to guess who's are who's?

* * *

NARRATOR

_Within the rift, something was stirring..._

_Something more ancient than the Valkyrur..._

_But only discovered during their time..._

_And only consciously put into common practice long after their passing..._

_Centuries ago, this power was harnessed by three extraordinarily powerful mages, each belonging to a great, and, depending on who was questioned, respected clan._

_Randgriz; the royal family of Gallia, hand-chosen by the Valkyria to rule the country from a ragnite throne._

_Reginrave; a large clan of powerful warriors and mages alike, their power and ambition was said to have no limits. Is it any surprise then, that they now rule over the Empire that dominates the lands to the east of Europa?_

_The final family, however, is lost to the sands of time; their history wiped clean by the onslaught of time and the barbarity and paranoia of those who feared what they could do._

_These three families called upon the source of all this power in the known universe – known universally to mages across the world as the Root – and used it to weave an incredible power; an earth-shattering event that would change the course of history time and time again._

_The Holy Grail War. A battle in which mortal men and women and the souls of the dead would rise to do battle in search of the ultimate prize; an artifact of equally unquestionable and unfathomable power, able to grant one single wish to those who manage to grasp it. This item of utter omnipotency is simply known as the Holy Grail._

_Within the rift, something was stirring..._

_The Holy Grail War would soon begin. And the contenders would have no choice but to do battle._

* * *

The dust seemed to go on forever.

The wind constantly stirred up the shifting sands of the badlands, ripping the dusty earth up in gargantuan dust devils that shot across the land like bullets, slowly wearing away at the stone remains of whatever civilization might have once stood here, the stone pitted and broken, as though caught in the middle of some battle long ago. Blasted and browned by the buffeting wind, blazing heat and light of the day, and the blistering cold of the night, there was little to indicate that this was once a shining beacon within an ancient dynasty.

What little there was to indicate such a fact, however, did so without even a shadow of doubt.

The temple was an absolutely gargantuan structure, a gleaming tower of silver in the center of the Barious ruins. Shaped vaguely to resemble a nautilus shell, the building bore the unmistakable spiral patterns and markings of the Valkyria, standing as a testament to what they had accomplished.

Within, given that there was appropriate light, the glory of the structure did not cease; the walls were covered in carvings, some depictions of the Valkyria themselves, others chronicling the events of the War of the Valkyrur and the Darcsen Calamity in a mix of carvings and the old northern script that had been etched into the ragnite. Great pillars, shaped to resemble spiraling lances, rose from the floor to the ceiling, further increasing the feeling of sheer grandeur that this place seemed to emanate.

Still further into the dark, past the great door that resembled a gargantuan spiral shield, down the spiraling staircase that led down miles into the earth, the inner sanctum rested, far beneath the surface of the temple that housed it.

In the pitch darkness, nothing so much as took in a breath.

It was simple dead silence.

Silence that something saw fit to break for the first time in centuries.

It started with the slightest of cracks in the floor; not even the greatest of the Valkyrur's structures can withstand the march of time forever. The crack was exactly what this force needed to begin.

Crimson liquid, eerily similar to blood even in the shadows of the temple, began to well up from the crevice, bubbling as it forced its way to the surface, spilling out in a small cesspool in the center of the room. Then, it began to spread, slithering across the floor in an unnatural pattern, small rivulets splitting apart and joining together seemingly at random, running in thin lines that should have not been possible without outside interference. And still, more of the stuff continued to rise from the depths of the earth, spreading in an ever more complicated circle that came to dominate the bottom of the inner sanctum.

The resulting pattern was eery, chilling; a gargantuan circle of runes inscribed in dark crimson had spread itself across the floor, filled to the outermost edges with inscriptions and patterns that seemed pagan in nature, in comparison to the structure that housed it.

But the ritual had only just begun.

The circle began to shift, changing colour, brightening ever so slightly before the room exploded into colour, everything tinted dark blue by the glowing circle, which now shone so brightly it was almost white. The wind howled through the corridors of the ancient temple, blasting the dust from the walls and echoing through the darkness, screaming like a choir of enraged banshees. Sparks of raw magical power erupted from the glowing circle, forming into great blasts of dark blue lightning that outright scorched the stone around the diagram.

And every aspect of it - the glow, the wind, the sheer amount of raw magical power that flooded the air – was still getting stronger...

And with a bright flash of light, it all stopped.

The figure stood, perfectly still, in the center of the circle, her eyes closed, her long black hair tinged slightly with the slightest traces of silver, though had there been anyone there to see her through the gloom, they would have guessed her to be no older than her early twenties. Dressed in robes of silver and white that matched her unnaturally pale skin, she stood nearly six and a half feet tall, with a proud and regal posture that would accompany the greatest of leaders. In her hands lay a pair of artifacts from times long gone by - in one hand, she gripped a bright silver spike engraved with spirals, about a foot and a half in length. In the other, a bright silver disk about half a foot in diameter would have shone in the darkness, had there been even the slightest amount of light remaining.

Slowly, the woman opened her eyes - orbs of stark electric blue that betrayed the knowledge and wisdom of centuries worth of experience – and began to take in her surroundings, not reacting in the slightest when the summoning circle beneath her began to deteriorate, crumbling into dust and rising from the floor in flakes of raw prana.

She glanced down at herself, expressionless, before giving a somewhat bitter smile, turning her gaze skywards, "it appears that the world has changed..." she sighed slightly, "and the Holy Grail War will begin soon..."

She continued to glance about before starting forwards into the dark, her long legs offering her a swift pace as she continued her musings, "it also appears that I have been chosen to mediate this War..."

With that, she disappeared into the darkness, and the silence resumed once more...

* * *

Militia captain Eleanor Varrot was NOT in a good mood.

She chewed at her lip slightly as she leaned on her desk, her hands intertwined with her black hair, pulling it slightly out of where it had been tied back into a bun. She never wanted this. Not once in her life had she EVER wanted this responsibility.

Not once had she wanted to take on this curse.

She sighed bitterly, removing one hand from her head while leaning on the other, staring into the back of her glove before slowly removing the object. When her hand was fully exposed, she felt her eyes narrow, and something akin to a hiss escape her mouth as she stared at the mark on the back of her hand.

It carried a faint crimson glow to it, etched into the back of her pale-skinned hand like an elaborate tattoo or brand; shaped like a trio of jagged, spiraling arrows, the tips facing into the center, this was the mark that certified her position as a participant in that damnable War.

A Command Seal.

This was exactly what she'd hoped to escape in the First Europan War. She had abandoned her family and thier practice as mages, joined the military to fight for her country, abandoned the magical world entirely, to escape being wrapped up in the utterly pointless bloodshed that the magical world often brought, so desperate were they to reach their precious Root.

In all her years, no matter how many times it had been explained to her, she had never been able to understand the obsession that mages had with reaching the Root. Yes, she understood that it was the source of all magic. Yes, she understood that it was the complete focus of so many magi all throughout their lives, and she respected that... but it was excessive. Excessive to the point where most mages would - and in some cases, did - sacrifice their own children for the mere _chance_ to further their research. If they failed, then the task was passed on to an heir, who was expected to do the same, devoting their entire lives to succeed where their predecessors had failed.

It had been that way ever since magic was first discovered.

She sighed again, removing her glasses and rubbing at the bridge of her nose, wondering for the thousandth time that morning why she of all people had been chosen to enter the Holy Grail War. It wasn't like she had overly outstanding magical potential - about twenty magic circuits of average quality, with an affinity for fire as an element, and an unknown origin, she had what it took to be an overall fairly average mage, probably would have done quite well, had she stuck with the practice. But she hadn't so much as practiced magic since the First Europan War - even back then, her magic wasn't anything that impressive, either. A basic combat spell or two was all she had up her sleeve, mainly as a last resort, put to good use when the enemy was the only one to see it before they were charred to a crisp.

But still, the Grail had chosen her to be a Master. As though out of sheer spite for her efforts to stay uninvolved with the world she had left behind with her true family name. And of all the times that it had to appear, it had to be now; in the middle of a war between the Empire and the Federation, when the first of the two military giants had reared its ugly head and set its sights on Gallia.

There HAD to be a reason why. For the timing; for her position as a contestant; for everything.

But what was it?

As her mood continued to sour, a soft knocking on the door interrupted her silent musings. Quickly pulling the glove back onto her hand, she folded her hands on the desk, clearing her throat, "enter."

The door opened, and in strode in one of the newer recruits - the man in command of the newly formed Squad Seven, Welkin Gunther. Wearing the traditional blue uniform of a militia soldier, the young second lieutenant was reasonably tall for someone his age, given that he was in his early twenties. His brown hair was rather long for someone in the military, brushing the top of his ears and the back of his neck lightly, and was slightly messy. He had light brown eyes, and a fair complexion that complemented each other well.

"You asked for me, captain?" Welkin asked after he had given a salute.

She simply nodded, prompting the man before her to relax. Her face remained completely neutral as she turned her gaze to him, "I trust that your capture of Vassel Bridge was not overly difficult?"

He nodded, "not at all, captain. It was a complete success."

She nodded in approval, her mood lightening slightly, glad to hear the first piece of good news she'd had that morning, "I'm glad to hear it. I'll report your success to my superiors when I can."

He nodded, then asked, "is there anything else, captain?"

She shook her head, "no, that is al-"

She cut herself short, staring at his hand.

"Captain?" the young commander asked, clearly concerned, "is something wrong?"

"2nd lieutenant Gunther..." she addressed coldly, her eye twitching slightly, "show me your hand."

Slowly, he did as she asked, allowing her to take in the bright crimson trio of marks that had etched themselves into the man's skin. Shaped vaguely like a large serrated combat knife that had been separated into three sections - the hilt, the guard and the blade, the bladed end facing down towards his hand, its glow was only partially visible in the light.

But it was there all the same.

"Gunther..." she started, her voice stern, "where did you get this mark?"

He glanced at it, clearly not as concerned as she was, "I woke up with it this morning. I figured that someone had put it there as a prank or something, but I haven't been able to figure out who would do something like it. But whoever it was, they were good," he chuckled nervously, his next words sending chills down Varrot's spine "Alicia, Isara and Faldio all woke up with similar marks this morning as well. So my guess is that it's just some kind of prank, in which case it's probably private Young or Ustinov. I'll talk to them about it when I can," suddenly, he sobered somewhat, "but still... I can't help but feel a little uneasy whenever I look at this mark. It's like... something bad is about to happen."

Varrot was silent for a long few minutes after that, simply staring at him in a mix of denial and disbelief. Finally, she spoke again, "Gunther, are you saying that Landzaat, Melchiott, and your sister have these marks as well?"

"Uh... yes?"

She found herself at a loss for words yet again, her frustration and anger nearly overwhelming her senses in a tide of utter rage, making her breaths heavy with the stress. Slowly, she stood, her trembling hands latching onto the edges of the desk, her magic circuits flaring, her prana raging like a wildfire and noticeably increasing the room's temperature. When she finally spoke again, her voice was a low hiss, a heavily strained whisper, "damn it..." her grip on the desk continued to tighten as she struggled to bring her magic circuits back under control, "damn it..."

"Captain? Are you alright?" she heard the younger commander ask.

"Second lieutenant," she brought her gaze up to meet his, her voice low, cold with forced calm, "go and find everyone you know who has a mark similar to yours. Once you have everyone gathered, bring them here immediately."

"With all due respect, captain, I hardly think that's necessary," Welkin began, "I think that there is a very good chance that this is just some kind of prank. I'll find who's responsible and-"

"Gunther," she cut him off, "if I wanted you to do that, then that's what I would have told you to do," her words were clear, leaving no room for discussion, "I want you to find everyone else who has a mark, and bring them here once you've found them," she leaned forwards, her eyes narrowing, "this is more than a simple prank, second lieutenant. Far more. That mark means maintaining peace among your squad may well become the very least of your worries within the next few days."

Welkin visibly swallowed, his gaze shooting down to the crimson brand on his hand before complying, showing himself out. About twenty minutes later, he returned, Faldio Landzaat, Alicia Melchiott, and Isara Gunther all in tow, their faces rife with concern.

Landzaat was another second lieutenant, dressed almost identically to the elder Gunther, aside from the decided lack of a hat. His skin was slightly pale, and his hair was a mix of a light cedar and an even lighter brown in terms of colour, slightly shorter in length and styled so that it flowed backwards from his head, and his eyes were slightly darker brown than Gunther's were.

Sergeant Melchiott, on the other hand, was considerably shorter than both of the second lieutenants, with her long brown hair pulled into twin pony tails on either side of her head, held in place by the white and scarlet bandana that she wore across the back of her head. Her brown eyes were lighter than everyone else present, seeming to shine slightly with concern.

And finally, the younger adopted sister of Welkin Gunther, Corporal Isara Gunther. A young Darcsen girl, she was easily the smallest in stature of everyone there, with extremely pale skin to accompany her hair and eyes, both of which were as black as a starless sky. Accompanying her uniform was a Darcsen shawl that she had slung across her shoulders, a light beige etched with the traditional light brown Darcsen patterns of old.

"Show me your marks. All of you," the veteran commanded.

They all glanced briefly at one another before extending their hands, exposing the bright crimson on the backs of each one.

On Melchiott's left hand, a pair of swords blazed, crossed with one another, as though preparing to duel. Accompanying these, an etching similar to flame hovered above them, giving off the dark red glow that Varrot couldn't help but despise.

Upon Landzaat's right hand, the mark was closer in nature to flowing water, a two of the marks like the splatters of ink when it was spilled prominent upon his skin; they surrounded something akin to a small dagger, appearing curved and wicked as the real thing.

And finally, the younger Gunther's right hand bore something akin to a pair of crossed gauntlets, a helm hovering over the enclosed fists, seeming to glare at all who laid their eyes upon it.

Varrot sighed in frustration, her head falling into her hands, "of all the things that could possibly have happened... why did it have to be this?"

"Captain?" Melchiott started, "what is it about these marks that has you so worried?"

The captain raised her head again, making no sound as she removed her glove, exposing her own mark, "I'll try to make this as brief an explanation as possible," she began, "you four have been chosen," slowly, she met the gaze of each of them, meeting their concerned confusion with stoic calm, "you are to be participants within the Holy Grail War."

* * *

"The Holy Grail War, your Grace?" general Radi Jaeger questioned, staring at the dark red mark that had etched itself into his skin in the night. Shaped like a large axe that had been separated into three separate parts - the jagged, serrated blade, the hilt, and the heavy spike on the back of the blade, simply looking at the mark sent chills down the general's spine. He was just over six feet in height, and was dressed in a rather unusual fashion for an Imperial general - a dark brown coat with a dark red front, accompanied by golden bars across the front and a golden belt to keep it in place, a longsword hanging at his side. His dark brown hair was long enough to be tied back in a ponytail at the base of his head, accompanied by a well-kept goatee that worked across the bottom of his jaw with ease. His skin was lightly tanned by the sun, and his eyes were a dark brown in colour, but his most striking feature was the unusual armour that adorned his right arm - at the shoulder, something similar in nature to a cow skull glared at everything that laid eyes on it, and from that, a gauntlet comprised of black metal extended down his arm, encasing the entire limb in blackened steel.

"Yes," the armour clad prince stated, with a clear hint of pride tingeing his voice as he glanced at each of the members of the Drei Stern – his personal inner circle of generals. All of them, the Reginrave's bastard child included, had removed their gloves, showing off the dark red brands that each of them had to bear.

Upon the left hand of the experienced general Berthold Gregor - a proud Imperial, and even prouder head of the esteemed Gregor family, known throughout the Empire for their noble blood, and throughout the magical world for the prowess of their mages - a seal similar to a coat of arms had proudly been emblazoned. Shaped vaguely like a crimson eagle, the main body, and each of the wings had been split into three sections, each one giving off a powerful crimson glow. Like the much younger Radi Jaeger, he was over six feet in height, his blond hair was cut short and well-kempt, slicked back with oil, and his skin was pale, the wrinkles of a middle-aged man that still had every ounce of pride of his youth staring out at the world. He leaned on a cane of black mahogany, tipped with steel, and wore the typical black and red uniform of all Imperial generals.

The third member of the Drei Stern, general Selvaria Bles, gave the mark on her right hand an ever more tentative stare - like Jaeger, her mark was similar in nature to that of a weapon that had been broken into several sections. Hers, however, seemed more fit for speed and precision than power - the center section bore the appearance of an elegantly crafted staff, while the sections on either side were similar to a pair of broad blades, long and sharp like a dual-ended, somewhat heavy spear. The shortest of the Drei Stern, she was still taller than most other people at a height of about five foot eight, her long silver hair flashing slightly in the light, and her sharp, almost hawk-like eyes were a bloody crimson in colour. Her uniform, the black fabric doing little to hide her voluptuous figure, was mainly black in colour, trimmed with gold and accompanied only by the slightest tinges of red.

And finally, the final member of the Drei Stern, prince Maximilian Gaius Von Reginrave himself, raised his hand into the light, smirking smugly with no small amount of poorly hidden pride as he took in the details of his Command Seal. A pair of crossed daggers, intertwined by the strands of a spider web. Standing at a height of just under six feet, the prince stood proudly, his short, wavy blond hair held in place by a sort of crown that resembled a golden wreath of laurels that sat upon his head. His white suit and cape-like cloak were accompanied by polished white armour with gold trim that sat upon his torso with pride befitting a king. Icy blue eyes pierced the air with a regal air, hiding his true nature from the world...

He lowered his hand, slowly stepping down from his throne, "you three, along with Ourselves," he began, "have been chosen to participate in the glorious competition created by Our ancestors known as the Holy Grail War. A battle royale between mages and the most powerful of possible familiars for the ultimate prize. An omnipotent wish granting device, capable of erasing and rewriting the laws of reality itself."

"The Holy Grail," Gregor breathed, scarcely able to believe his luck as he continued to stare at his Command Seal. It was every mage's _dream_ to be chosen for this contest of power and prowess; to even be considered for it was an honor. To be chosen... it was something that one did _not_ take lightly under _any_ circumstance.

Selvaria tilted her head slightly, her gaze quizzical, "with all due respect, it seems slightly... convenient that it happens now, when we declare war on Gallia, your Grace."

The prince's smirk widened slightly, "well noticed, Selvaria. You see, the Holy Grail War is fixated in Europa. While there is no fixed location for it, it is possible to predict, and, if the conditions are right, confirm the location of the next one," he motioned with his free hand, "that is one of the precise reasons that We were able to sway Our father into declaring war on Gallia. Because the country is the location of the coming War. Because We were the ones who found the location of this Holy Grail War, as well as the one who gave the Empire's council reasons to invade, Our father has guaranteed that if We bring victory to the Reginrave family, We will inherit the throne upon his death for bringing Our family honor, and carving out a direct path to the Root. Not only will Gallia's fall give the Empire a foothold against the Federation, but the Holy Grail will have been brought to the Reginrave family," he sighed, licking at his teeth, "the world will be at Our feet, each separate nation Ours for the taking."

"I understand why you were chosen then, but... why us?" Jaeger questioned, "why were we chosen for this?"

Maximilian's smirk did not once leave his face as he began, "the criteria of how the Grail chooses the contestants of the Holy Grail War is unknown to even the wisest of minds within this world. However... it _is_ known that every person who is chosen has a reason to desire victory. They all have a wish of some kind; a wish for the Grail to grant."

Jaeger nodded slightly, though Gregor's brow creased itself in a frown as his gaze fell upon the young Fhiraldian.

There was no doubt in the elder man's mind of his Grace's intentions; as the Imperial prince, there was simply no way that he would turn upon the Empire, especially not with the promise of becoming Emperor hanging before him. If anything, his victory in the war would bring about a new age of glory for the Empire, perhaps in the form of the destruction of the Federation.

Nor did he have any doubts of Selvaria's loyalty; the woman was infatuated with the prince. She had risked her life for his mere word on more than one account; she had gone so far as to impale herself with a bayonet in order to unlock her true power, all for his Grace's sake.

The final person in the room, Radi Jaeger, however, was a far different story in Gregor's mind.

Aside from the promise of Fhirald's sovereignty, there was absolutely no guarantee of the man's loyalty. While his Grace seemed to trust Jaeger (or at least his fixtures on the general's loyalty), Gregor was far from certain that the Fhiraldian wouldn't betray the Empire. After all, the Empire had conquered Fhirald in the First Europan War; there was no telling what kind of hatred or resentment might be brooding in that man's heart.

Depending on who Jaeger summoned as a Servant, the Grail may well be handing him just the tools he needed to claim his vengeance.

Jaeger's own eyes narrowed slightly as he glanced at his own Command Seal again, "so what's the nature of this... War? How is it waged?"

Maximilian blinked slightly, then sighed, "We apologize, Jaeger. We had forgotten that you have minimal experience with the magical world, as a first generation magus," he raised his hand, showing his general his own mark, "the crimson marks on your hand are known as Command Seals. They symbolize your position as a participant within the Holy Grail War. They also allow you full command of beings known as Servants - a total of three undeniable commands per participant which their respective Servants cannot disobey."

Jaeger's eyes narrowed further, "Servants?"

"Beings that have been summoned from across time to serve as combatants for the Grail on behalf of the mage who summoned them," Maximilian continued, "certain people who have committed great deeds in their lives are sometimes immortalized by their actions. These people, known for the most part as 'Heroic Spirits', are removed from the cycle of reincarnation and brought to the Throne of Heroes. The Grail allows the participants to summon these beings into one of seven 'classes' - Saber, Lancer, Archer, Rider, Caster, Assassin, and Berserker," he unconsciously flicked out a finger with each one he labeled off, "each class has their own unique advantages and disadvantages, though some are considered to be stronger than others. For example, the three Knight classes, Saber, Lancer, and Archer are all considered to be incredibly powerful, with Saber being the most excellent of all the classes, whereas Caster is the only one with any true mastery over magic. Assassin and Berserker are exactly how they sound - one specializing in assassinations, the other a raging brute," he proceeded to stare at his hand again for an instant before continuing his explanation, "of course, the true power of each Servant is dependent on more than just the class they are summoned into. It is also dependent on who they were in life, as well as the mage who summoned them forth. These mages and Servants will do battle against one another in secret until only one remains – only one to lay claim to the Grail, the others reduced to dust and consumed, used to fuel the Grail's power and purpose," he shrugged, "another reason why declaring war on Gallia was the simple option. It's much easier to keep the battles between each separate party secret that way."

Jaeger nodded again, thoughtful, though he stared at his newly proclaimed Command Seal with disgust. The marks on his hand were essentially a sort of shackle - a tool that was capable of forcing someone into bending to one's will completely, even if only for a few moments. Three times, it would allow someone to temporarily force another person to their will, rendering them little more than slaves.

Three times too many, in his opinion.

Pushing these thoughts to the back of his mind, Jaeger asked, "so there is a... Master for each of these classes?"

Maximilian nodded, biting slightly at his lip, "normally, that would be the case - there would normally be a Master in control of each class. Seven Masters in total, with one extra Servant with no Master summoned to mediate the Holy Grail War in an unbiased manner, placed into an eighth, irregular class referred to as 'Ruler'. However... something is different about this particular War," he began to pace about the floor, his eyes narrowed, "We would assume that it is the result of the Holy Grail's power having gone unused from Holy Grail Wars previous, in which there was no clear victor, and thus the energy that had been collected throughout those Wars to supply the Grail had gone to waste. Mages from Our family line have theorized that the Grail has stored that energy over time... and as a result, it is allowing more Servants to be summoned than the base seven. A Master, however, cannot maintain more than one Servant at a time - normally, so much as summoning a Servant should be impossible, as the requirements to sustain them in terms of raw prana are more than what the average mage can supply them with for more than a few hours. But the Grail allows us Masters to do so by in turn sustaining those Servants with the prana needed to sustain physical form – we simply supply them with the base amount of prana they need in order to fight. Still, the cost of this alone is immense - to the point where control of two Servants at one time is impossible unless one of them were to remain inactive the entire War," he stopped, smirking slightly, "We... apologize. We have gotten rather off track, haven't We?"

He turned back to his generals, "the point is, there are more Servants that are going to be summoned in this particular War. And in turn, there will be more Masters participating," his eyes narrowed, his smirk disappearing, "due to the increased competition, we cannot take any chances. None. We must gain every edge possible if we are to claim victory. We use the most renowned artifacts we can find, Valkyrian preferably, in order to summon the most powerful of Servants."

He reached into his cloak pocket, and took out several pieces of paper, handing one to each general, "the summoning will require three things - a chant, a summoning circle, and an artifact with a connection to the Servant you are to summon. While it is possible to summon a Servant without an artifact, it is for the best that we use one – particular Servants only respond to the call of particular artifacts. If you want to summon someone in particular, or even just a powerful Servant, you need an artifact to guarantee your chances for success. The papers you have been given have the chant required to summon forth a Servant properly," he looked at Selvaria, then at Gregor, "the two of you are more than ready to begin. All that remains is choosing an artifact. Soon, We will allow you each to choose one out of Our family's rather impressive collection. Choose wisely."

He pulled his glove back onto his hand, hiding the Command Seal from view as he looked at each of his generals from left to right, "you two may go. You, however, We would like to speak with in private, Jaeger."

The three of them nodded, followed by Gregor's and Selvaria's swift evacuation from the room. Maximilian stood across from Jaeger, giving the man his utmost attention.

"So what is it that you'd like to speak to me about, your Grace?" the title rolled off his tongue odd, as though forced.

If the Reginrave noticed, he did not show it, "it is about your specifics in participating in the Grail War."

"What about them?"

Maximilian folded his hands behind his back and began to pace once again, "We will be the first to admit that you have potential as a mage, Jaeger. You have a decent amount of magic circuits of surprisingly high quality, especially considering that you are a first generation magus – you are the first person in your family to practice magic, correct?"

Jaeger pulled his own glove back on before folding his arms, "so far as my knowledge goes."

The prince nodded, "that's part of the problem. While you have much potential as a mage, the fact remains that you are still a novice in terms of experience. If We remember correctly, Gregor only began teaching you magic about a year and a half ago."

"At your insistence, yes. He seemed highly reluctant to teach me though."

Maximilian couldn't repress a smirk, "considering that you are the one who damaged his leg in the First Europan War, We can't say We are overly surprised. However, that is beside the point. Another part of the problem is the fact that you are a first generation mage - you have only your own magic to lay claim to. You have no magical lineage, no research to base your own magic and research upon... no thaumaturgical crest to enhance your power. Therefore, when you summon your Servant, they will be weak in comparison to most others - not the familiar one needs to be victorious in the Holy Grail War."

Jaeger nodded, his eyebrows furrowed as he scratched at his chin, "yeah... that is going to be a problem, now that I think about it."

"Indeed. However... there is a way around it."

The general blinked, and Maximilian gestured to the paper in his hands, "We have made preparations for you to summon one class in particular to counteract the weakness that your Servant would normally have as a result of your relative lack of experience and power as a mage. In your summoning chant, you will find two extra lines that will give your Servant an element of madness."

Jaeger's eyes widened in sudden understanding, "you intend to have me summon Berserker."

Another nod from the Imperial prince, "the Berserker class is a rather... difficult class for most mages to control. They are generally powerful, but have lost most if not all of their sanity, making them difficult to handle and almost impossible to use for actual strategies in any way other than as a diversion. They are also heavily taxing for their Masters to support, as while their power is much, much greater while under the madness, the madness is also in many cases either artificially created or enhanced by their Master. As a result, they require much more prana than other classes. However... given your rather impressive prana output, We think that is a task you should be able to shoulder quite effectively. It will be tiring at times, yes; it will be dangerous, as the Berserker is exceedingly dangerous to handle, even for their own Masters," the prince put his hand on Jaeger's shoulder, "but should you pull through... should you accept that burden and fight your way to the end... regardless of whether or not you win, Fhirald will have its freedom. We promise you that."

Jaeger was silent for a long few minutes, his jaw set as he weighed his options.

He hadn't intended to get involved in this. This could well be a much greater burden than what he could handle.

But at the same time...

He turned to Maximilian, his eyes burning, "where does your family keep their relics?"

Maximilian smirked as he gestured for the general to follow, "We knew We could count on you."

* * *

The empty halls of the facility were eerily quiet.

It was almost silent under normal circumstances; save for the scurrying of vermin across the floor and within the walls, and the constant, steady drip of water that was present in the occasional cell, the quiet was something one grew accustomed to over time. Aside from that, there were the experiments that were conducted every once in a while; it was then that the noises became interesting. The symphony of screams of suffering, the sounds of gunshots as those who failed the tests or tried to escape were either put out of their misery or forced even further into torment...

But right now, the halls had taken on a quiet that was almost... unnatural.

No guards walked the halls. No scientists wandered the dark. The prisoners - or if you prefer, the test subjects - were all in their cells, too afraid to make a sound.

The only person who was currently active in the facility had sat himself down at a desk in the laboratories that were further into the center of the facility, where he conducted his more... questionable activities. He himself was unusually quiet, the usual joviality and crazed grin having disappeared, drowned out by his intrigue as he flipped through the pages of his book, his milky white eyes – literally just orbs of white in the darkness – shifting occasionally to the mark on his hand; a dark crimson trio of flames, spiraling out from the center of a brutally jagged circle. His face was an utter mess of scar tissue, as though he were a wax figurine whose face had been used as an impromptu candle on more than one occasion. Bulging veins surrounded his eyes, and his nose looked like it had been broken multiple times, as though someone had smashed it in, and then repeatedly tried to put it back into place with a sledgehammer, only to fail miserably with each attempt. Cuts and burn marks marred his tanned skin all across his face, the most noticeable and decidedly the most brutal of them being a thick, jagged line that ran on a diagonal from the top right corner of his forehead to the bottom left corner of his jaw, and though it seemed impossible through all the scars, there was the unmistakable impression on his neck of a recent shave. He was balding on the top of his head, though around that patch, crimson hair grew like a wildfire in a tangled mess, hanging down the sides of his head to his shoulders on his side, and nearly past his shoulder blades at the back. Finally, he stood, well over six feet tall at his full height, his clothes decidedly belonging to a military branch of some sort, his hands calloused from hours of his chosen field of work. His jaw set as he read through the lines of his current page-

-and then the door opened, breaking up his train of thought.

"C-Captain Grimes," an exhausted voice called out.

The man turned a bored gaze towards the door, where a soldier stood, his hand brought to his brow in a salute.

For a few moments, neither spoke, but eventually, the now proclaimed Grimes decided to break the silence, "I hope you have a good excuse for interrupting me, boy. I was in the middle of something important."

The soldier spoke quickly, clearly eager to get out of his addresser's attention, "I-I was just sent to inform you that your package had arrived."

Grimes raised what he could of one mutilated eyebrow, "oh? And you didn't bring it to me?"

"I-I... w-well..." the boy stammered, "W-we... We weren't sure if you wanted to see it i-immediately, sir. We wanted t-to make sure that you wanted it brought here before we jumped to conclusions... so..."

He trailed off, and Grimes gave him an expectant look, as though giving him permission to continue. When he did not, Grimes gave a sigh, gesturing, "stretch out your hand."

"S-sir?"

"Do it."

Slowly, reluctantly, the soldier complied.

It didn't take long for him to realize what Grimes was doing, considering that the soldier-turned-madman now had a gun in his hand, and had closed the distance between them.

Quickly grabbing onto the soldier's arm, Grimes put the gun to the man's wrist, and pulled the trigger. The resounding explosion of light and sound was almost immediately followed by a scream as blood splattered across the floor. Grimes released his arm, allowing the soldier to fall to the floor, grasping at his wounded arm and cradling it like a child, still screaming in pain.

"Enough of that," a hint of amusement had entered Grimes' voice, and it immediately had the soldier fall silent; it was when Grimes was amused that he was arguably at his most dangerous. Grimes gave a slight shooing gesture as the man looked up, "now go to the people who sent you here, and show them your arm. Tell them that next time you interrupt me, it had better be important."

As soon as the soldier was on his feet, he was gone, the only sign that he had been there being the swing of the door, the unmistakable scent of smoke, iron and gunpowder, and the small spatters of blood that now decorated the floor.

Grimes tossed the gun back onto the table, returning to his book, "now... where was I?" he mused, flipping pages back and forth for a few seconds before finally stopping, "ah, here we are," he put his finger to the page, reading over the lines once more, "when the summoning ritual for a Servant is conducted without a relic, then the Grail will in turn summon forth a Servant whose mindset is similar to their summoner in order to gain the best possible combination of Servant and Master."

For a long time, Grimes was silent, these words burning in his mind like a brand as he considered the path before him.

Finally, his face broke into a savage grin as he slammed the book shut, packed it away into the folds of his coat, and strode from the room, his mind already ablaze with plans.

There was simply no way that any ordinary Servant would stand for Grimes of all people to be their Master; he wouldn't be able to utilize a relic of any sort, at this point. He would have to do without; his luck had held out for him so far, so there was no real point in worrying about receiving a weak Servant. He would simply work with what he had, regardless of whom he received.

Therefore, there was no longer any need for the package he had sent for; he already had quite a heavy edge.

After all, given that this was a war for heroes to wage, what were the chances of his opponents expecting a foe that was just as twisted as he was?

* * *

Cordelia Gi Randgriz sat in her throne, her expression completely neutral, not betraying even the slightest of emotions as she stared down at her hand. Marring her pale skin was a crimson mark, shaped vaguely like a flower with three sharp petals arcing outwards in a spiral, glowing slightly in the dim light of the throne room.

She herself sat back, her petite body slumping hopelessly against the ragnite throne, her blue and silver dress and cloak folding upon itself as she did so. Her black eyes were dull, glassy, as though the person whom they belonged to had lost all hope for the future; her head, encased in some kind heavy shawl, all with the typical spiral design of the Valkyrur.

On the outside, she seemed cold, emotionless. Empty.

On the inside, however, her emotions were a raging storm of negativity; a horrible mix of hopelessness and sorrow and rage and Valkyrur know what else that she knew was worse than any emptiness.

She knew that this couldn't possibly bode well. The Empire had declared war on Gallia, and almost immediately afterwards, her Command Seal appeared.

She grated her teeth slightly, trying to hold back her tears. Why couldn't this all just end? The world had already seen fit to make her Borg's puppet, to risk the livelihood of her and her country for hispride and ambitions.

Wasn't that enough?

Finally, she spoke, her voice a muffled whisper, barely audible even to her own ears, "why?" she murmured, "I just... I want..." her gaze was even further downcast than before, "I just want..."

For a long few minutes, she sat there, motionless. Finallly, she stood, wiping at her eyes before starting to walk away.

She may just be a puppet...

But she still had something to fight for. No matter how pointless the struggle was.

* * *

General Georg Von Damon was a very, very happy man at the moment.

His sickening grin nearly stretched from ear to ear as his sipped at the wine in his hand, staring at the Command Seal that glowed in its position on the back of his hand, shaped like a pair of spears, with a wolf's head overlooking the rest of the mark, its teeth bared from its position.

A proud member of Gallia's very own Damon family (arguably one of the more respected magical families of Gallia), the man was clearly a noble; there was no mistaking the fat that accompanied his air of pride, or the elegantly trimmed beard and slicked back hair. He was dressed in the garb of a Gallian general, complete with the gold trim that adorned the shoulders, and the sword that would normally hang at his side sat before him on the desk.

His eyebrows furrowed slightly, however, when an unwanted reminder came unbidden to his mind.

His late father, a hero and veteran of the First Europan War and an incredibly powerful mage, had considered his son a failure.

The rest of his family quickly followed suit, regarding the younger Damon with cold and absolute minimal respect. He had been taught the utter bare minimum of magecraft before his father's passing; there was no mistaking the absolute disgust in his family's eyes, and the shame in his father's, when he, as the eldest son, was given the title of head of the Damon family.

His eye twitched slightly as he swirled the wine in his glass. Even now, his family considered him an utter failure, a stain upon their name. He had been all but cut off from them at this point, with their fortune and his daughter all that remained of his family that he truly cared about by this point.

At this point, they simply considered him a figurehead. A very poor figurehead, at that; the coming war with the Empire was his final chance before they removed him from his seat as head of the family, and gave his younger brother (who had been given all of the family's magical secrets as the chosen heir) the position.

Damon smirked slightly as his eyes once again landed on his Command Seal.

This was his chance to gain the respect he deserved as the true heir and head of the Damon family.

He took a sip of his glass again, contented with the situation before he opened the box on his desk, revealing a roll of cloth about six inches in length. Unrolling the cloth, he grinned as he laid eyes upon his relic; a foot long braid of silver hair, from days long gone.

There was no doubt that this would summon forth one of the Valkyria to do his bidding.

Everything was quickly falling into place.

When he was finished, the family would be begging for his forgiveness.

* * *

"Son of a bitch!" the boy, no older than sixteen shouted, kicking over the boxes of ammunition with one solidly placed kick, the lessons of his deceased surrogate father, mother and brother calling back to him from his mind. But even they failed to push aside the blonde's rage as he swung at the air again, pushing through an imaginary foe in practice like he had countless times before, his breath ragged, his long hair which had been tied back in a short braid that reached the back of his neck and his tanned skin coated in sweat, his most surprising feature – the Darcsen headband that had been wrapped around his head since this whole ordeal with the Empire began – soaked through with the salty liquid. He had thrown his coat – the Imperial red jacket that marked him as a shock trooper – aside, exposing the tank top he wore underneath, his combat pants and boots almost having darkened to black in the dim light of the evening sky, allowing the cool air to caress his average build, all five feet six inches of it. Around one hand, thick white bandages had been wrapped, keeping the thin, bladed chains he'd wrapped around his fingers from cutting his flesh, and a black, fingerless glove adorned the other hand. His right hand.

He breathed, slowly, deeply, exhaling on each separate swing, trying to keep his mind on the kata* that had been taught to him. Being one of the few that had been taught the little known, but highly effective fighting style of the Darcsen monks who lived in the monasteries of the mountains along the southeastern borders of the Empire, he had some things that many others didn't.

Control over his temper when under massive amounts of stress didn't happen to be one of them.

No matter how he tried, he couldn't keep his mind from wandering to just a few weeks ago. Back before his home had been invaded by the Empire.

He'd lived in a peaceful border town, happy as someone of his disposition as a "Darcsen lover" could have been. Even when his mother was dead and his father – if you could really call him that – had left him for dead, he'd found himself moderately happy living alone in the place. After all, he had some - okay, fine. He had no friends. They were more than that to him. To him, they were his family.

Matt Valkyr. A member of one of the few Darcsen families who dared to take a last name for themselves.

The Valkyr family had always been a rather precarious one - they had a surprising amount of influence in Gallia, given the fact that they were Darcsens. Because of that, and their refusal to give into any threats of any sort, they also had some dangerous enemies, both in terms of politics and in their everyday lives.

The Yggdists hated them, and made multiple attempts to drive them out of the town, but always wound up going right back the way they came to their precious church, grumbling like a group of idiots.

The townsfolk were largely mistrustful of them, shops constantly charging them more than what the actual price was in an attempt to get them to stop coming by, and yet were (begrudgingly) considerate of the family's council, only taking action after the Valkyr had been consulted.

But the boy was neither your average Yggdist or towns person.

Rather, after he befriended the youngest Valkyr, the family had begun to treat him as one of their own. When he needed support, they were there for him; when his mother died, they consoled him. When his father abandoned him in disgust for his bond to the family, the Valkyr saved him from his own despair.

To them, he was family in all but blood. And thus, was treated as such.

They helped him in ways that no one else was willing to. They gave him a job, a home. They taught him nearly everything he knew, from how to properly write to how to defend himself if it were needed (thus, the kata he was currently practicing).

But he never got the chance to repay them.

The Empire had declared war upon Gallia. And their first murders were the Valkyr.

After all, no matter how experienced one is in close combat, it is of little help if one's opponent is a master in firearms.

Somehow, however, against all odds, the boy had survived.

Given what had been taken from him, and what he was about to be forced into, however, he was about to wish he hadn't.

He had been found by the one in charge of the attack on his town. Saved by his attackers, he was brought behind enemy lines, nursed back to full health within the week.

By the end of that week, he'd been given a new identity, a new place within the Empire. As well as their armies.

It would have gone over a bit better if they'd asked him before enlisting him.

He was grateful to the person who had saved him (the man - Jaeger, if he remembered correctly - reminded him of old man Loki Valkyr). But the result was a fully-fledged grudge against the Empire that he knew would not fade with time.

Somehow, some way, he soon found himself under the command of Selvaria Bles. Assigned to her personal squad, of all things. And so far, their relationship had been... strained at best.

Great. Fantastic.

He breathed in again before giving another swing, and bringing his leg up in a back kick, the makeshift bladed cleats he'd attached to his boots kicking up the dust as he moved along the edge of the storehouse. He froze as he heard a sound, shifting in place and yanking the gun at his hip clean out of its holster, pointing it directly at his supposed attacker-

-only to freeze up again, gritting his teeth in a mixture of flustered embarrassment and shock when he saw who it was.

Leo Marksworth, one of the few upsides to his current situation, held his hands up, his emerald eyes wide from where they were hidden behind his long hair.

For a long time, neither one of the boys spoke.

Finally, the dark haired sniper swallowed, "Drake... I would appreciate it if you were a bit more careful about where you're pointing that thing."

Drake swallowed, clicking the safety back into place before slowly holstering the handgun, "yeah... sorry. You startled me. That's all."

Leo sighed with relief, giving a dismissive wave of his hand, "don't worry about it. I'd probably be in a worse state if I had to deal with all the crap you're going through right now."

Drake nodded in response before resuming his previous stance, his hands clenched into fists and raised again. For a long few seconds he stood before restarting his kata, moving step by step through each section as he remembered it, slower than before, to allow for self-correction in his form along the way. He heard Leo start again, "so what are you doing out here so late at night? You know we have a curfew."

"Like you're one to talk," Drake grunted, bringing both his arms up in a block before pushing forwards, unleashing a reversal upon an invisible enemy, "Selvaria imposed an even earlier one on you, given that you're our sniper. You keep our asses safe."

"Point taken. But seriously, what are you doing out here?"

"Practicing," Drake grunted again as he shifted into his next stance, "I need to keep in shape if I want to get through this alive. Unlike you, I'm out in the thick of it all. This is the best way without training weights. Besides, it helps me keep my form and usually clears my head."

"From how you were swearing earlier, I don't think it was working this time," the deadpan in Leo's voice was enough to silence the chirp of the insects.

Drake didn't miss a beat, his response just as deadpan, "I do believe that the keyword in that sentence was 'usually', Leo."

"Point once again taken."

They both let out a chuckle at their banter, smirking slightly as Drake brought his foot to the side in an axe kick. After a few more minutes, Drake stopped, sighing as he carefully removed the chain that he'd wrapped around his hand, and stuffed it into his pocket before pulling off the bandages on his left hand. Looking over his skin, he nodded, "looks like I managed to not cut myself this time."

"Only because you didn't actually punch anything."

"True," Drake huffed, grabbing his jacket and using it briefly as a towel before throwing it over his shoulders, "we should probably head back. You remember what happened last time we were caught breaking curfew."

Leo nodded, standing back up and falling into step alongside his friend, "yeah. I am NOT getting caught doing that again."

For a time, they walked in silence back towards the "residential" area of the base. Eventually, though, Drake froze, his eyes narrowed, prompting Leo to stop as well.

"What is it?"

Drake remained silent, merely backing up a few steps and pulling Leo along with him into the shadows. Finally, he raised his hand, pointing.

When Leo's eyes landed on what had gotten Drake's attention, he audibly swallowed.

Striding briskly through the camp was another member of Selvaria's personal squad, and one of the greatest lancers in the entire Empire. The Beast of Theoks, Eloc Oxford. Standing just a couple inches over seven feet, the giant of a man - no, the giant of a warrior steppedbriskly through the cold night air, his eyes narrowed slightly, clearly having a destination in mind. His build was rather heavy, but even through the blast suit that marked him as an Imperial lancer, was clearly highly athletic, every movement seeming to flaunt the raw power that he possessed as one of Fhirald's mightiest gladiators; however, he also seemed to possess a certain grace that could only be attained by a true warrior. His long hair, black as a demon's shadow and usually tied back behind his head in a slick pony tail, now hung loosely about his shoulders, slightly unkempt, accompanied by a thick mustache and beard, both of which were recently trimmed, the latter of the two running along his jaw before joining with his thick sideburns.

For a long few moments, the both of them held their breath, waiting for the man to pass - and nearly had a heart attack when he stopped, turning his gaze in their direction, as though he'd known where they were the whole time.

One second of silence passed...

Two…

Three.

Finally, the giant grunted, jerking his head back towards the tents of the base.

To anyone else, it would have been a simple gesture with little meaning. To the two he was addressing, however, the message was clear. As far as Oxford was concerned, he'd seen nothing. But they'd better get where they belonged, before someone who wasn't as forgiving found them.

With that, the lancer continued on his way.

Leo let out a sigh of relief, his hand grasping at his heart, "damn, that was close..."

Drake's eyes, however, narrowed further. Normally, Oxford wasn't that lenient. Not unless he was in a hurry. And he was never in a hurry unless...

"Drake?" Leo grabbed his shoulder, "you alright?"

Drake grunted, "something's not right..." he stepped forwards, "I'm gonna follow him. You're free to come if you want."

He heard Leo's jaw go slack, "are you crazy!?" the sniper's voice was a harsh whisper.

The shock trooper turned to him, his face one of utter deadpan, "I thought we cleared up the fact that I lack anything so much as resembling sanity a long time ago, Leo."

"This isn't just insanity, Drake. This is stupidity," he hissed, "you might be crazy, but you're not stupid."

"In which case you and I have very different definitions of stupidity."

With that, Drake turned on his heel, and started into the dark, keeping Oxford in his sight the whole way, Leo giving a slight curse before quickly following.

It didn't take long for Oxford to reach his destination.

The tent, in comparison to all the others, was massive - not quite tall enough for the giant to simply walk in without having to duck underneath the flaps, but still large enough to practically be a small warehouse. Drake blinked, confused as Leo wandered up beside him, "Selvaria's tent? What's he doing in there?"

"Don't ask me," Leo stated.

Drake nodded, his face grim, "something is definitely not right," he muttered, "it's probably nothing, but... I'm going to check it out. Maybe I can overhear something."

"Drake-"

But the shock trooper was already making his way to the side of the tent, his ears twitching slightly as he stilled, completely silent, straining to hear the conversation within the confines of the fabric.

* * *

Eloc Oxford stood, his head bowed within the confines of the tent not only out of respect for the woman before him, but also because the tent's design had not taken the height of someone his size into consideration. Before him stood the only person to ever defeat him since the start of his career as a gladiator in the arenas of Fhirald.

Selvaria Bles.

He smirked, unconsciously rubbing at his arm as he recalled that particular fight. He swore that occasionally, he still felt the rings of pain from when she'd broken it - and with his arm, his arrogance. He had underestimated his opponent, allowing her size to cloud his judgement of her strength (which, considering that she was a fully blooded Valkyria, should have been perfectly obvious), and he paid dearly for his mistake.

Still, he wouldn't deny that he would enjoy having a rematch with her someday.

He shook free of these thoughts, returning himself to the present moment. He brought his fist to his chest in a salute as he spoke, his voice carrying the gruffness of an avalanche, "you asked to see me, general?"

She nodded, "at ease, Oxford," she closed her eyes as he relaxed, considering where she should begin. Finally, she opened her eyes again, raising her hand and rubbing at the back of her glove, "did a mark appear on your hand during the night over the last few days? Crimson, split into three parts?"

Oxford blinked, caught off guard by the strangely specific question. Finally, he sighed in acknowledgement, pulling the glove off of his right hand. Exposed upon his scarred skin, red sigils blazed in the dim light, shaped into a pair of swords that were placed on a parallel to one another, the tips of the blades facing his wrist, bound together by a spiral that dominated the center of the markings.

"I see... I suspected as much," she stated simply as she removed her own glove, raising her hand for her subordinate to see.

His eyes widened slightly as the blazing crimson of his superior's brand was etched into his mind. He grunted, his eyes narrowing and his eyebrows furrowing as she continued "you, Oxford, along with the Drei Stern, have been chosen to compete in the ritual known as the Holy Grail War."

* * *

Drake swallowed harshly, his breath gone from his lungs as his gaze went to his right hand. The black fabric that encased it was worn, tearing slightly in places, the fingers cut off long ago. Slowly, he pulled the glove all the way off his hand, showing off the mark that had been hidden underneath the black.

A single blade in the shape of a claymore, surrounded by flames. Glowing slightly in the dark.

He himself had thought that it was just some elaborate prank earlier. Deciding that he liked the way the mark looked, he had hidden it rather than attempted to remove it, to keep the prying eyes of his commanding officers from seeing the clear breach of dress code.

A statement made in wearing a Darcsen headband was one thing. Actively aggravating them by getting a tattoo was going to get him a court martial.

He remained silent as he listened to his superiors speak, eagerly absorbing every ounce of information that he could from Selvaria's speech. The Holy Grail War. Magi. Magic. Servants. Summonings. A wish granted to those who win... it sounded like something out of some sick fairy tale.

Nonetheless, he continued to listen, taking note of each individual detail as he pulled the glove back over his hand...

* * *

When Selvaria finished, both she and her subordinate were silent for some time, neither willing to break eye contact, save for the occasional blink from both parties.

Finally, she spoke, "do you have any questions, Oxford?"

He shook his head, still silent. All his questions had indeed been answered by her explanation. But still...

"General," he grunted, "if I were to have heard this from anyone else, I would think that they were either crazy, or that they were trying to pull some elaborate joke on me. While I do have full faith in everything you have said tonight," he pulled his glove back on carefully, suddenly filled with unconscious fear of accidentally damaging the seal that had taken root on his hand, "I would like some form of proof. I want to know that this is all true."

"Proof?" she asked. She scratched slightly at her chin before sitting down, "well... I can't give you proof of the Holy Grail War at the moment aside from our Command Seals, but I can prove to you that magic and its practitioners do indeed exist. Whether they were aware of it or not, the Valkyria dealt quite heavily with magic themselves."

"The Valkyria?" Oxford raised an eyebrow at that, "they practiced magic?"

She nodded, "according to the research put into the subject by several powerful and highly regarded families within the magic community, yes. Their magic is renowned throughout the world as the Azure Flame."

"The Azure Flame?" both of the gladiator's eyebrows had been raised at this point, "that... that would make you..."

"A mage?" she finished for him, "yes. While I do not have a thaumaturgical crest, the instruction I have been given by his Grace, as well as my heritage as a scion of the Valkyrur should be more than enough for me to actively compete in this War."

For some time, Oxford was silent, absorbing what the general had to say. Her words burned in his mind like flame, weighing heavily on him. Finally, he nodded, grunting slightly.

"I trust you will be joining the Holy Grail War, Oxford?" she asked.

Oxford hesitated, if only for an instant, before answering, "yes, general."

"Then will you fight in the service of the Empire, and claim victory on her behalf?"

His hesitation was slightly longer than the one before, "yes."

Selvaria nodded, "very well then, Oxford," she took a slip of paper from the desk, and handed it to him, "this is the chant you will need in order to summon your Servant. I expect you to be able to rehearse it by heart within the next few days. Once you have, I want you to burn it. Am I understood?"

Oxford once again brought his fist to his chest in salute before tucking the paper away into his coat, "understood, general."

"Good. A shipment of several ancient relics will be coming into camp in three days. I will be taking one in order to use it as a catalyst for my summoning ritual. You are free to take one as well if you wish."

"Understood. But I don't think it will be required," he smirked, "I already have something in mind."

She nodded once more, "very well. You are dismissed."

For the last time, Oxford saluted, "general."

With that, he left the tent, striding towards his own tent, ready to lay his mind to rest.

* * *

Drake couldn't help but smile grimly as he crept back out of the shadows, still trying to absorb both what he'd heard, and the fact that he'd managed not to get caught. He held back a snort of laughter, muttering under his breath. Almost immediately, he sobered, his gaze once again reaching his glove as he silently sauntered away from Selvaria's tent.

He already knew he was getting involved in something that was far over his head.

Then again... when had that ever stopped him before?

"Drake," Leo's voice broke his train of thought, "you are an idiot."

"You have made that clear multiple times over," the shock trooper grunted, rolling his shoulders.

Leo shook his head, muttering under his breath as they started back towards their tents, then spoke up again, "so... did you find out anything?"

Drake spared him a glance, "you're probably going to think I need to be placed in an asylum if I tell you. And if you tell Selvaria... well, then we both get locked up for whatever the Empire can find grounds to justify."

Leo raised an eyebrow, letting out a low whistle, "that bad?"

"Probably worse."

Leo returned his eyes to the path before them, "I take it that you won't talk about it out in the open?"

"Damn straight I won't."

"Will you tell me at all?"

"As soon as I have proof of what I have to say," Drake stated, putting his hands behind his head, "so within the next week, hopefully."

For a time, the two were silent. When they finally reached their respective tents, the Lion turned to face the Dragon, eyes burning, "I hope you know what you're doing, Drake."

The blond grimaced slightly, "so do I, Leo," he turned around, ducking beneath the tent flaps and wrapping himself up in the sleeping bag, "so do I..."

* * *

Welkin grasped the box in his hands with an ever tightening grip, his face grim as he strode through the darkened halls back towards his room. He was still having a hard time so much as believing that what he'd been thrown into was real. It all sounded so... absurd. So illogical and unrealistic. At times, he caught himself trying to convince himself that this was all just some bad dream.

But this wasn't a dream.

That was proven by the several times that the dawn had come, and his nightmare had still not ended.

Not to mention that eerie feeling that pricked the back of his neck, as though warning him that the nightmare had only just begun.

He grimaced as he finally reached his room, opening the door, and carefully closing it behind him, locking it as he did so. He froze, perplexed by his own actions, then grated his teeth.

The War hadn't even begun, and he was already paranoid enough to lock his door when he had nothing to fear. There was no one on the other side. And even if there were, they posed no threat to him.

At least, not yet.

He sighed, placing the box in his hands on his desk before carefully undoing the latches. The hinges creaked loudly as he opened the lid, and he gazed at what was inside.

A thin ragnite chain that only bore the slightest signs of rust lay within, snaking across the burnished mahogany floor of the box in a crude circle. But what got Welkin's attention was the ornament that adorned that chain; two separate locks of hair, one the pure white of freshly fallen snow upon the mountaintops, the other, black as a moonless night sky should the stars burn themselves out, braided together and crudely bound by a piece of ancient, tanned leather.

Slowly, carefully, he removed the item from the box, staring at the charm. It was hard to believe that his entire future – hell, the future of Gallia, maybe the world**, was riding on this tiny little necklace. Sure, there were thirteen other items that could come into play as well, but the fact that this was one of them... it just seemed surreal to him.

He inspected it with care, remembering what Varrot had told him about this relic. Apparently, this necklace had a sister - which was currently in the grasp of the Darcsen monasteries far to the east, a grasp that would not be relinquished lightly.

According to legend, one necklace belonged to a man who had sought to change the world for the better, who sought peace, only fighting because it was necessary.

According to that selfsame legend, the other had belonged to a bloodthirsty warrior who had lashed out at everything that she had considered a threat, constantly seeking out the guilty to remind them that their crimes would not be so easily forgiven.

When the necklaces had been made, a lock of hair was taken from each and bound together, representing their powerful bond, forged long before the world knew anything about of either one of them.

Depending on which one this necklace had belonged to, it would change the Servant Welkin would summoning when the time came.

Placing the necklace back in the box and clasping his hands together, his eyes squeezed tight, second lieutenant Welkin Gunther desperately prayed to the Valkyrur for the former.

* * *

Alicia Melchiott sighed again, unable to drift to sleep.

Like Welkin, the whole "Holy Grail War" issue was beginning to get to her. She had laid there for hours, constantly shifting and readjusting, unable to get comfortable, often times simply staring at the wall, or the ceiling, or across the room as her heart hammered against her ribs.

Like a child afraid to go to sleep because of a nightmare.

She shuddered, then drew herself into a ball beneath the covers.

Just when she had been able to get a grasp on the fact that the Empire had declared war, this was sprung on them from out of nowhere. Finally, she sat up, shivering against the cold before slowly pulling herself out from under the covers, her night clothes doing little to stop the chills that ran up and down her spine. Her steps shaky, her bare feet padding lightly on the seemingly icy floor, she walked up to inspect the artifact that captain Varrot had managed to procure for her, courtesy of Princess Cordelia's kindness.

Inside their container, the swords were long and thin, easily more than three feet long, but barely more than a centimeter wide when removed from their plain black sheaths. The ragnite they were forged from had been stained a permanent pitch black, making the blades resemble slivers of midnight, barely visible in the shade of the room; were it not for the moonlight that shone through the drapes, they would have been outright impossible to find. The hilts and guards were both etched with gold, giving off a dim glint, like that of the sun just before it dips past the horizon, plunging the world into the night.

The Ghostblades, the captain had called them. Weapons that were said to have simply passed through armour without so much as slowing down or even leaving a mark on the armour, cleaving the wielder's enemies apart from the inside out.

Alicia ran her fingers lightly along the edge of one of the blades, wincing slightly upon accidentally cutting herself.

After all the centuries that these things had laid in the treasuries of Castle Randgriz, they had not so much as dulled, or even chipped.

Alicia's gaze lingered on the swords for a moment longer before she walked away, leaving the room completely to wash out her cut.

* * *

Faldio idly tossed the instrument in his grasp from hand to hand, frowning slightly, doing a remarkable job at hiding his pensiveness.

He still wasn't sure what to make of what he'd been thrown into - he had heard vaguely of the Holy Grail War before captain Varrot had given them the full story, having read about it in a book at one point. He hadn't paid that much attention to it - after all, he was a history and archaeology buff, not a mythology buff - and dismissed it as a legend of some kind. He'd held onto the book in case he ever got bored, but had never really seen where it would come into play during his life.

Now, it seemed that what he'd read was coming back to haunt him.

Having reread the book, this time paying far more attention than the first time, he had learned the true, far darker and not immediately visible nature of the Holy Grail War.

Not only was the War a deadly competition - secrecy, it seemed, was an utterly mandatory requirement. All non-magi witnesses were to be dealt with in one of two ways.

The first was simple memory manipulation, in a rather effective attempt to keep the civilians from remembering what they had seen.

The other method was far darker, and arguably the far more likely path that most competing magi would choose, considering their nature should the reading he had on the Grail War be accurate. The outright murder of innocent bystanders who had witnessed the battles that were to take place.

That, combined with the fact that Servants could apparently devour-

'No,' he stopped himself, 'don't think about that. You've already tossed your lunch once tonight over that particular subject. You don't need to do that again.'

In an attempt to change the course of his train of thought, he took a glance at the artifact in his hands, skeptical. It was clearly an instrument of Valkyrian design, made from pure, gleaming silver ragnite, etched with spirals, but he'd never heard of Valkyria using any instruments aside from drums and their own voices before in his studies. Given how little was known about them, he certainly wouldn't put it past the realm of possibility, but he couldn't help but have his doubts. Especially considering how much of their music seemed reminiscent of war drums and choir, rather than such a simple wind instrument as a set of shepard's pipes.

No matter the case, though, whatever Servant he summoned, he hoped it would be ready and willing to help him end the Holy Grail War as soon as humanly - or in this case, Servantly - possible.

* * *

She knew perfectly well that she shouldn't be there. She knew that being caught in the R&D facility at this time of night was enough to earn her a court martial, or worse, depending on who found her out here.

But it was obvious that she didn't care.

Isara Gunther's face was one of utter conviction as she continued to tinker with the inner workings of the Edelweiss, her teeth clenched as she once again withdrew her hands, which were now covered in grime and oil.

She had removed the upper part of her uniform and wrapped her shawl about her waist to keep both from getting dirty, revealing the white shirt she wore underneath; she was up to her elbows in grease, and the clear scent of iron stung her nostrils. She worked a few minutes longer before closing up the section she'd been working on and quickly hopping off the side of the tank, her eyes narrowed slightly as she looked over the original plans of the vehicle, searching for more parts she could replace or improve to upgrade its performance.

She had seen the way her brother had looked after the explanation – and the proof - the captain had given them all.

It was a look she couldn't stand to see on his face.

A look of fear.

And so she worked, worked to keep her brother safe. Safe and confident and friendly. The way he should be.

She was fully willing to admit that the entire mess they were in now scared her; she was already wondering if there was a way to back out somehow.

She grimaced, forcing her attention back to the plans; she had a feeling that even if there were, then someone else would likely be chosen to compete.

Not exactly a pleasant thought.

Murmuring under her breath, she spared a glance at the simple box that stood on the edge of the desk. She had forgotten it was still in her grip until she'd made it here, and she now completely regretted it. Her glance turned into a glare, if only for an instant, before she shook her head, sighing.

It was not the relic's fault, and there was nothing she could do about the situation for now. There was no point in getting angry about it. Especially when said anger was going to be directed at inanimate objects.

She shook her head again before moving to take another look at the item within, opening the case with a piece of cloth as to not stain the wood with blackened oil. Within lay several thick straps of leather, bound in certain places with ragnite.

A bridle, black as the hair and eyes of any Darcsen.

Closing the box again and sparing another glance at the plans, she quickly picked up a wrench, and returned to her work, wanting nothing more than to end the chaos before it started.

* * *

Eleanor Varrot was silent as she sat in the darkness of her quarters, her face expressionless as she stared at the contents of the opened crate before her. A circlet forged from ragnite, damaged by battle and time, sat within, shaped vaguely to resemble a crown made from thorns or branches.

When she finally spoke, it was to herself, her voice low and grim, "there is no turning back now."

* * *

Cordelia's lips pursed on themselves as she lifted the relic from the crate; a staff carved from blackened ash, seemingly untouched by the years, rather simple in design, save for the claw-like appendage that gripped the sphere at the top.

"Well, Princess?" Minister Borg's voice ran like poison into her ears, making her instinctively grate her teeth, "have you prepared?"

Though it was well-hidden, there was no mistaking the subtle mix of contentment and disappointment that was boiling within his voice. He had wanted to enter the Grail War, Cordelia had known that much. But he hadn't been chosen; she doubted the Grail had even considered choosing him. Especially considering his complete and utter lack of what was required to perform magic to begin with; magic circuits.

But she HAD been chosen. She HAD magic circuits.

And she was his puppet. So she would have to do.

Quietly, she turned to him, her voice and expression utterly monotone, "yes."

* * *

Oxford sat silently in his tent, silent as he pondered the night's events, staring at his Command Seal. He'd had every intention of putting the matter to rest for the morning, but it appeared that the turning gears of his mind had no intention of allowing him sleep anytime soon.

He grunted. May as well make this time useful.

After going through the lines of the aria the general had given him a few times, he quietly opened the large bag that he'd brought along from Fhirald. Mainly, it was full of supplies, but there was something in particular he was looking for. Two of several keepsakes that he would not trust to be left alone.

He dug in the bag for several minutes before he finally found what he was looking for. Grinning, he pulled out the twin weapons, looking each over with interest.

Each one was a family heirloom, said to date back to the Darcsen Calamity itself. A pair of longswords, slightly longer than a gladius, with the overall shape of a gladius as well, but bearing the distinctive spiral pattern of the Valkyrur upon the guard and hilt.

While he did not try to pull either blade from its sheath for fear of breaking them (it wouldn't surprise him if there were so much rust on the blades now, that they would break before he managed to pull either sword forth), he did know exactly what he would use them for.

He smirked. If he managed to summon forth his Servant forth as a member of the Saber class, then the war was already won, given who had once wielded these weapons.

The Crimson Blades of legend.

* * *

Jaeger and Gregor both sat at the long mahogany table, the former being unusually quiet as the both of them examined their chosen relics.

To the Fhiraldian, the remains of a gargantuan weapon had been granted, laying on the table. Were it complete, the massive sword would have easily been more than two thirds his height in length - that is, if it still had the blade to begin with. Instead, all that remained was the hilt and guard, though if the shards that were still attached were anything to go by, the blade itself would have been as wide across as his outstretched hand, fingertip to fingertip. It had a mix of Valkyrian and more primitive natures, the guard and grip engraved with spirals, but nonetheless bearing crude, ancient markings, as though hewn from stone rather than forged from ragnite. He frowned as he ran his fingers across the jagged shards, clearly not looking forwards to his summoning ritual.

The Imperial noble, however, was a different story, looking over his artifact with clear interest. He had recovered an ancient longbow about three feet in length, fairly plain in nature and style; aside from the spirals that had been etched into the grip, there was nothing overly special about the weapon. Clearly, the Heroic Spirit this weapon had belonged to wasn't one for flaunting their prowess or achievements.

Neither one of them spoke, opting to continue the examination of their relics instead.

"We take it you are satisfied with what you have been given?"

They both glanced up at the voice as Maximilian opened the door, striding in with a box in hand.

"Quite, your Grace," Gregor nodded, Jaeger following suit, though the latter remained silent.

"Good, good," the Prince nodded, placing the box in his hand on the table before quickly opening it, revealing the object within.

A dark silver piece of cloth, inscribed with a spiral-like pattern that was eerily reminiscent of a spider web.

"Tomorrow, we shall all be creating our contracts," the Reginrave stated.

"Tomorrow?" Jaeger asked, raising an eyebrow, "so soon?"

"The sooner we summon our Servants, the better, general Jaeger," Gregor pushed his glasses up onto his face, "those who summon their Servants first are generally those with the greatest advantage in the Holy Grail War. It allows them more time to prepare."

"Correct, Gregor," Maximilian nodded, "however, we must keep in mind that the Holy Grail War does not technically begin until all seven – or in this case, all fourteen - Servants have been summoned. Until then, we must keep our hostilities to attacks upon Gallia's front. We would rather not risk bringing the wrath of the Ruler of this War down upon any of our heads."

The two were silent, having no cause to argue as they returned to the examination of their artifacts and chants.

* * *

Drake smirked as he watched the supply convoy pull itself into the base, unconsciously rubbing the back of his glove. He knew that what he was about to do was going to get him much more than a mere court martial if he were to get caught; it may even be a death sentence, given how big of a matter this "Holy Grail War" apparently was.

But that didn't change a thing.

He'd been chosen by the Grail. And like everything else he did in life, he'd be damned if he didn't see it through to the end. Therefore, quitting before the game had even begun on account of what MIGHT happen was not an option. Completely out of the question.

As soon as the trucks stopped, he started moving with the others as they began unloading the trucks, sacks and cases being handed down from each part of the convoy. As he worked alongside them, he kept his eyes open, his ears twitching for the slightest sound of what he was looking for.

It didn't take long.

"General Bles has specifically ordered that these crates be taken directly to her tent!" a soldier shouted, pointing at a total of five unloaded crates of various sizes, the largest more than six feet in length and two feet in height and width, the smallest a good foot wide on each and every side, "if any of you so much as drops one of them, then so help me-"

Drake didn't bother listening to the rest. He already knew what was coming should he screw this up.

As others moved in to take up the burdens of the crates, he moved in, grabbing the smallest crate (which was surprisingly light for its size) and starting in the direction of Selvaria's tent, barely hiding the smirk that threatened to rise to the surface. He kept his pace much faster than the others, eager to break away from the rest of the pack.

When he finally rounded the corner, Selvaria's tent came into view, with no soldiers milling about aside from the minimum amount of guards - nearly everyone had been ordered to help carry out the supplies from the trucks.

Whether Selvaria was really that worried about these artifacts or she just wanted the unloading over and done with, it was fine by Drake.

He briefly debated just going back to his own tent, relic in hand, but decided against it. Even if he had what he needed for the ritual, that was only half the equation.

He still needed the chant.

Besides, even if they didn't know about the crates, there was still a chance the guards could rat him out for disobeying orders.

Quickly, he made his way to the tent, biting slightly at his lip as he ducked beneath the flaps.

Almost immediately, he internally cursed his luck as his body stiffened, staring right into the eyes of the one person he was hoping to not be present.

"Good afternoon, private Valkyr," Selvaria's cool voice rang in his ears as her hawk-like eyes met his, locking onto him with all the focus of the greatest of snipers.

He caught himself quickly, responding, "same to you."

She leniently ignored the informality of his response, having grown accustomed to his lack of formality over the past few weeks that he'd been under her command, though it was still something she intended to change once she got the chance.

Right now, however, she had other problems.

"I would like to know exactly why you're here, soldier. If I remember correctly, you aren't a person who is that fond of my company."

"Just following orders," he hefted the crate in his arms again, "you wanted these sent to your tent, right?"

She nodded, though her eyes visibly narrowed slightly, "very well. Thank you."

He nodded in turn, "where do you want it?"

She opened her mouth to answer when fate decided to give Drake exactly the chance he needed.

A loud crash emanated from outside, followed by several loud and creatively colourful curses, and several soldiers barking out orders. Without so much as a second thought, Selvaria had pushed past Drake, leaving him stunned as she pulled herself past the flaps of the tent and into the open sunlight, out of his sight.

His eye twitched slightly, his lips curling upwards, baring his teeth in a savage grin.

There was no better opportunity than now.

He glanced about for an instant before moving over to the desk, sifting through the papers, carefully placing each back into place once he was done sorting through each pile.

There had to be another copy of the chant _somewhere_...

* * *

"Come on," Drake hissed, "where is it!?"

He'd sifted through nearly every separate paper on that table by that point, every damn order and letter, every individual character on each, and he was quickly running out of time, the way an hourglass runs out of sand. It was as though there was a nagging voice in the back of his head that chanted with each passing second, "time is precious. Time is fleeting. Time... is something you have very little of."

"Shut up," he grunted. He froze for an instant, then brought his hand into his forehead at full tilt, teeth grit and his eyes squeezed shut, "and now I'm talking to myself. Great," he shook his head, "just... shut up, me. Before you make an even bigger idiot out of yourself."

Finally, he took a step back, examining the desk at a distance, searching for something he might have missed.

Then something caught his eye.

On the corner of a dresser further in the back of the tent.

A folded up piece of paper...

Picking the crate he'd brought back up, he tentatively stepped up to the dresser, taking a quick glance before taking the paper. Upon unfolding it, he froze, feeling his face once again split into a grin.

"You know, Selvaria," he spoke aloud, folding the paper back up and tucking it away into his pocket, "you really shouldn't leave things like this lying around. People might get ideas."

With that, he turned, and, with some effort, slipped out under one of the side walls of the tent, the chant and a relic in hand, the grin never leaving his face.

* * *

As the horizon's throat was slit by the setting sun, staining the sky pink and crimson, Selvaria paced about her tent, her eyes narrowed, her teeth grit slightly, her hands clenched into fists.

Not only was one of the relics missing, but her copy of the summoning mantra was as well.

There was no doubt in her mind as to who was responsible.

Private Draco Valkyr. Also known as Drake Valkyr. A shocktrooper (a surprisingly capable one at that, given his age and experience) and the official loose cannon of her personal squad.

The only question in her mind that remained was why he would do such a thing. To take two things that were that specific... to even take an interest in such things, let alone actually steal them... could he be a participant of the Holy Grail War as well?

Even she was unable to stop herself from shuddering at the thought of someone like Drake summoning Berserker, and then turning his Servant loose to rampage upon the battlefields. Not only would it be utter chaos, but it would be completely impossible to keep the Holy Grail War a secret if that were to happen. The very idea of the boy participating was enough to send chills down her spine.

He was already known among her ranks as the "Wild Card" for a reason, after all.

Moreover, if he _had_ been chosen by the Grail, then there was nothing she could do about his actions. As a Master, until such time as he summoned his Servant, he was literally untouchable to her, or anyone so much as affiliated with the Holy Grail War; if she tried to reprimand him, physically, legally or otherwise, she risked the wrath of the Ruler class for breaking the laws of the War set down by the contract created by its original makers over three hundred years ago. Something that neither she nor the Empire nor his Grace needed at this moment, or any moment in time. And by the time he did summon his Servant, it was likely going to be too late for anything to be done about him or his actions anyways.

All she could do was see how this all played out.

She shook her head, sighing, "that boy is going to be the death of me..."

"You say that as though you were his mother."

She turned to face her visitor, coming to face Eloc Oxford once again.

She scoffed, "hardly. You know that Valkyr and I aren't on the best of terms, Oxford."

He snorted derisively, but said nothing, having made his disdain for the boy clear several times over the weeks since the private had joined.

"Speaking of, did you manage to find him?" Selvaria asked.

The gladiator turned soldier shook his head, "no. I checked all across the base. He's gone. Along with his... sniper friend," he nearly spat the word 'sniper' out, as though it were poison to his tongue.

The general closed her eyes, biting slightly at her lip, "that's what I was afraid of."

"Do you think he deserted?"

"No. He's too stubborn to do something like that. He said himself that 'he'd be damned if he didn't see this through'," she opened her eyes, "I think that what he's done is far worse."

Oxford raised an eyebrow, prompting her to continue, "I think that Valkyr may have been chosen as a contestant for the Holy Grail War."

For a long few minutes, both inhabitants of the tent were silent.

Finally, Oxford spoke up, "general... please tell me that this is some kind of sick joke."

"I wish it were, Oxford. But his actions today only add up if that were the case," she shifted her weight with clear unease, "he's taken not only one of the summoning catalysts that were delivered, but also my summoning aria while I was absent. I know my chant by heart now, but..."

The lancer nodded in understanding as she trailed off. She didn't need to finish for him to know what she meant.

Now Drake would have absolutely no issue in summoning a Servant.

"Shall I go after them, general?" Oxford asked, "I should be able to track them down easily enough."

She gave a dismissive wave, "don't worry about it, Oxford. At this point, there isn't anything we can do about it. For now, prepare your summoning catalyst and your aria. We will be commencing the summoning tonight. Around twenty two hundred hours, go directly north of camp for a full mile with your catalyst in hand. You will find everything else that you need there."

Oxford nodded, "very well, general."

He left without another word, leaving the woman to stew in her own thoughts.

Now silent, she turned to inspect her chosen artifact.

A case the size of a small jewelry box had been removed from the crate, and now sat on the desk, opened. A chain forged from ragnite and etched with spirals on each individual link sat daintily within. At the very center lay a jewel, hanging from the chain upon a pendant, a deep ocean blue in colour and curved in the fashion of a spiral, giving rise to the image of a maelstrom within her mind.

Without a second thought, she closed the case, picked it up, and, cradling it under her arm, walked away.

She had work to do.

* * *

"Drake, what are we doing out here?"

"You'll see once we get far enough away from the camp," the shock trooper huffed, the crate under one arm, repeating the summoning mantra over and over in his head as he walked through the underbrush, a hand on the trigger of the ZM MP 3 submachine gun that hung by his side, "until then, you're not getting anything out of me."

"Is that because you have no proof?" Leo asked, pushing after him, his rifle slung over his shoulder.

"Not yet," he huffed, "but once we get there, you'll have no reason to deny my proof."

Leo sighed, crossing his arms, "when are we going to get there, anyways?"

"It's not long now. Just a few more minutes."

Leo glanced back, clearly not put to ease by Drake's words, "we've been walking for over three hours now, Drake. It wouldn't surprise me if they thought we'd deserted by now."

"I'm not gonna lie, Leo. After tonight, we might have to desert," Drake replied as he pushed through another bush.

They were both silent for a long few minutes, the only sounds made by either one of them being their footsteps.

"How did you manage to convince me to do this again?"

"Reverse psychology."

"... I hate you."

"I get that a lot."

With that, the two broke from the underbrush into a large clearing, devoid of plant life aside from the grass, and even that was slightly faded. Drake's eyes narrowed, "this is it... I'd have thought that it would have been a bit more... alive though, given how much energy is in the air."

"Drake?"

The Dragon turned to face the Lion, his eyes grim, "Leo," he started, his voice stern, "you have to promise me that you will remain silent about everything you see here. If you are asked about it, you will deny knowledge of it."

The sniper blinked, taking a step back, "Drake? You're really beginning to scare me."

"I'm not trying to. I just need your word, and then I can give you the proof I promised you."

Again, silence fell between the two.

Leo finally sighed, closing his eyes, "alright. I give you my word."

Drake nodded, then knelt down, ripping open the crate with the combat knife that had sat holstered at his waist. He blinked when he pulled out the object that had laid within.

It was a helm, forged from ragnite from a time that seemed to be from before the Valkyrur, if it were possible. It was marred with age, scarred and marked and chipped from years of battle and war. The metal was jagged, coloured a mottled steel gray, with what looked like pieces of bone - or, more accurately, massive teeth jutting out from the jawbones that had been so brutally affixed to the metal - jutting up from the brow, side, and back like a crown. On either side of where the face would be should someone wear it, more teeth reached down the sides of the cheeks and eyebrows. Upon the top, sides, and back, where metal was predominant, the ragnite was layered, as though to mimic the thick scales of some mighty beast.

Sweat began to form on Drake's face just holding the thing in his hands; not because it was particularly heavy, but because it seemed to impose a presence upon him. Trying to make him kneel.

And it felt like he _should_ be kneeling.

Shaking free of these thoughts, he placed the helmet near the edge of the clearing, facing towards him, and kicked the rest of the crate into the underbrush, keeping it out of the way. He then took off both his gloves, exposing his Command Seal, and took out his combat knife.

Grating his teeth, he rolled up his sleeve, and cut open the palm of his left hand several times, blood welling up to the open air.

"Drake?" Leo asked, clearly concerned about his friend's well-being and sanity, "what are you doing?"

Drake gave no response, merely allowing the palm to face towards the earth and letting the blood drip to the earth. As soon as each drop hit the ground, it began to stretch outwards, running in rivulets across the ground...

* * *

Grimes smirked as the final screams reached his ears as he gripped the young man by the arm, the severed stump spraying blood across the floor of the laboratory. Around him lay the dead bodies of several prisoners of the facility, their limbs and throats also severed, their blood used to create a basis for the circle that now sat comfortably in the center of the room.

Finally growing weary of the young man's screams, he decided to finish the job, hefting the child to his feet before his knife flashed again.

The boy's throat sprayed forth more crimson as his screaming degenerated into helpless gurgles, and he fell dead at the feet of the madman.

Clasping his hands together enthusiastically, Grimes stood at the edge of the summoning circle, ready to begin.

* * *

Oxford stood resolute before the summoning circle, made from crimson ink used specifically for spellcasting, calm and collected as ever outwardly. The silence and dark of the wilderness did nothing to bring forth even the slightest sign of turmoil, from his expression or his stance.

On the inside, however, he was anxious.

He was about to summon forth his (supposed) ancestor, one of the most famous figures in history. He had every right to be nervous.

However, he did not back down. Instead, he placed the Crimson Blades on the opposite side of the circle from himself, and raised the hand that bore his Command Seals.

He would have to remember to thank the general for being so generous as to give him the materials he needed for this moment of glory.

* * *

General Berthold Gregor stood at the ready, his cane several feet away, his face lacking any form of expression as he stared at the relic that he had chosen, across from the circle he'd drawn from liquid mercury.

He stood within the depths of the fortress, deep beneath the earth, with only his relic, the dark, and the dead silence for company.

And yet his heart pounded in his chest, threatening to break his ribs from the inside out from his elation as he mentally prepared himself for the summoning.

* * *

Georg Von Damon rubbed at his beard as he inspected the intricate seal that he had requested be drawn out upon the floor of his office, where the drapes had been drawn closed, the remains of the melted down ragnite he'd requested for use as a basis for the summoning circle still sitting in the bottom of the container. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took a few steps around it for another angle, then nodded.

It was a bit... simple for his particular taste. But it would do.

Reaching into the box and pulling out the hair, still wrapped in the leather, he placed the braid on the opposite end of the circle from himself, then returned to his position, smirking.

Now was the moment of truth.

* * *

Deep beneath the foundations of Castle Randgriz, Cordelia's eyes drooped from exhaustion as she finished drawing out the circle. She had never been awake this far into the night; and this one exception was already taking its toll upon her body.

Let it be known that those of noble birth do not have all the advantages over their lower-born brethren.

She stood unsteadily, staring at her catalyst, lain almost daintily upon the floor.

Somehow, she knew that whatever Servant she summoned, it would be far from helpful to her situation. Her cause, perhaps. Her situation? She highly doubted it.

The show had only just begun; it must go on.

And so she breathed in, trying to gain her second wind as to complete the summoning.

* * *

Jaeger carefully set the broken weapon down upon the ground; he doubted that the Servant he was to summon would be able to tell the difference until it was summoned - and that given that it was a member of the Berserker class, it probably wouldn't care anyways, given that it would likely be completely out of its mind - but he didn't want to take any chances.

He was basically going to summon forth a new comrade, after all. May as well make a good impression.

He frowned as he stood, making his way to the other side of the circle.

Earlier, Gregor had made it clear that he would think of whoever he summoned as little more than a tool, some piece on a chessboard to use and discard as necessary.

The Fhiraldian snorted, grating his teeth.

There was no way he was going to treat his own Servant like that.

Titles like Servant and Master meant nothing to him in this. Until someone proved him otherwise, he and whoever he summoned, even if they were under Mad Enhancement, were equals.

He faced the circle with utter conviction, uttering a slight prayer to the Valkyrur in hopes of increasing his fortune in this War, if only slightly...

* * *

Selvaria Bles stood in the shadows of the forest, glancing about occasionally to reassure herself that she was completely alone.

The circle was complete. Her catalyst was ready.

All that remained was the act itself.

For the glory of the Empire...

For the glory of the Drei Stern...

For the glory of the Reginrave family...

But above all, for the glory of his Grace, she would commit to this act without so much as a thought of her own well-being.

* * *

Captain Varrot inspected the pictures of the circles that Welkin and his comrades had each made, eyes slightly narrowed as she looked over each one, not giving off even the slightest of emotions. They stood upon the earth of the forest floor, a few miles south of Randgriz; where they now stood was roughly in the center of all five circles (including Varrot's own summoning circle), each within about a thousand meters of another in case they needed to get into contact with each other quickly, but far enough so that their Servants would not immediately react with hostility to the others until the situation had been explained. The Edelweiss stood at the ready nearby, the lights affixed to it giving off all the light they needed to do their work.

"Is this simple ritual really all that we need to complete our summonings?" Welkin asked.

"Surprisingly enough, yes," the captain nodded, "it is the Grail that does the actual summoning of the Servants; all we Masters must do is give them a destination to be summoned to, and then the prana that they require to anchor themselves to the world."

"It still disturbs me that we used the blood of wild animals to do this," Faldio shuddered slightly.

"You're just upset that you and Welkin were the ones that wound up doing most of the work," Alicia gave a slight attempt at humor, which was quickly stifled by the looks given to her by both the captain and Isara, the latter of whom had sworn off meat for at least the next month after what she'd seen that night.

Varrot gave Faldio a serious look, "blood is a simple, and highly effective conductor of prana, mister Landzaat. I would have gotten us better materials, but time is of the essence. Thus, the use of blood," she pushed her glasses further up the bridge of her nose, "there are many mages who would use human blood as a base for the circle, given how good of a conductor it is in comparison to animal blood. I do not approve of such methods, but there are others who would not so much as hesitate to use them."

Everyone aside from the captain blanched at this new knowledge, frozen until Isara finally managed, "l... let's just get this over with."

With that, they each departed for their respective circles, catalysts in hand.

* * *

(Author's note; read the next part while listening to the piece of music "Fate Zero Point Zero." It makes this next part all the more awesome)

* * *

Prince Maximilian stood in the meeting hall of the Drei Stern, silent as he stared at his Command Seals, then the catalyst he had chosen, and then finally, the summoning array that stood on the floor before him, where the mahogany table normally sat.

It only took a full minute before he finally made his decision.

He raised his hand, Command Seals bared in the light, and began the summoning, chanting;

"Fill, fill, fill, fill, fill."

* * *

Cordelia gripped her arm, struggling to keep her eyes open as she moved onto the next line of the aria;

"Repeat five times, but when each is filled, destroy it."

* * *

Gregor calmly kept his hand raised as his circle began to glow, sparks of prana launching occasionally from the edges;

"For the elements silver and iron, a foundation of stone, and the archduke of pacts, and my ancestor, Schweinorg."

* * *

Oxford's voice rang out clearly above the howling wind, eyes fixed upon his family's greatest treasures;

"Raise a wall against the wind..."

* * *

Faldio's eyes began to sting, the light nearly too great for him to keep them open; but still, he pressed on;

"... and close the gates of four directions. Come forth from the Throne..."

* * *

Grimes stood, unfazed by the arcs of lightning that blasted out from his circle, the wind roaring in his ears;

"... and follow the forked road leading to the Kingdom!"

* * *

As the circle's light began to turn from light blue to pure white, Drake continued to chant, unhindered by the circle or by Leo's shouts of protest;

"Hear me now; my will creates your body!"

* * *

Welkin's voice, though shaky, rang out through the forest all the same;

"And your sword creates my destiny!"

* * *

Alicia's aria rang in her ears like a symphony among the howls of the chaos that was her summoning circle's magic;

"If you hear the Grail's call, and obey my will and reason..."

* * *

Isara's eyes watered as the light grew ever brighter, an audible whine beginning to make itself known among the howls of the wind;

"... then answer my summoning!"

* * *

In spite of the continually growing violence of the prana that emanated from the array, Selvaria stood, steadfast as ever before;

"I hereby swear, that I shall be all the good of the world!"

* * *

Georg Von Damon spoke out, sweat pouring down his face as he continued his mantra;

"That I shall defeat all evil in the world!"

* * *

Jaeger gripped onto his arm, grating his teeth as he began the extra lines within his aria;

"But let thine eyes be clouded by the fog of turmoil and chaos! Thou, who are bound within a cage of madness! And I, the summoner, who holds thy chains!"

* * *

Varrot's voice carried out, seemingly across space and time as she gripped her arm, her glasses cracking slightly from the raw energy that she faced;

"Seventh heaven clad in the great words of power, come forth from the circle of binding! Guardian of scales!"

* * *

With that, all of the summoning arrays burst in a flash of bright light that overwhelmed their makers, obscuring the beings that they had brought forth into reality…

* * *

Drake hadn't been entirely sure what to expect once his summoning was completed, especially not after falling over on his ass and hitting his head against a rock. He had just hoped that his summoning had been successful, and that he had managed to summon a powerful Servant.

When he finally opened his eyes, he found that he had not been disappointed.

The man was easily six feet tall at least, with long black hair falling from his head well past his shoulders, his tanned skin broken occasionally by battle scars. His armour - which was almost completely black in colour, interrupted only by the gold trim and the draconic emblem that had been etched into some of the pieces - was a complex mix of plate (making up the breastplate, and the plates that had been fused to his gauntlets and boots, forged in a fashion similar to scales to allow for ease of movement), chain mail (in between the plates where leather would not be sufficient protection), and leather (mainly prominent where there was no plate mail upon his boots and gauntlets, as well as upon his upper arms and legs, offering decent protection as well as relative maintenance of his mobility). A ragged crimson scarf wrapped around his neck, blowing about slightly in the wind, accompanied by a long black bearskin cloak that hung from his shoulders. A gargantuan claymore had been slung across his back, poking out over his right shoulder, allowing him to access it with ease, and at his hip, a dagger hung from the right side, and a large, curved longsword hung from the left, each weapon in its own distinct sheath. He cradled his helmet under one arm, fingers tapping lightly on the metal, as though anxious or impatient.

But what got Drake's attention was his face.

A powerful jaw, with higher than normal cheekbones, and eyes as black as night. A series of scars caressed the left side of his face, the first going down over his eye, the second over his eyebrow, the third just beneath his eye, and the last one running down on a diagonal across his cheek towards his jaw. And wrapping around his head, keeping his hair out of his face...

A Darcsen headband, worn and ragged, but worn with certain pride.

"Drake...?" Leo audibly swallowed, "what's going on?"

The shock trooper didn't answer, too transfixed by the man before him to so much as speak.

'It worked,' his mind raced, 'it actually worked!'

"... You. The one on the ground," the Servant started, "I am the Servant Saber of the Holy Grail War. I ask of you..."

* * *

Jaeger huffed, trying to regain his breath after what had just transpired, his eyes squeezed shut from the bright flash of light that had consumed him. He breathed deeply, trying to calm himself before risking a glance at the fruit of his efforts.

He found his breath leaving his lungs again as soon as he laid eyes upon his Servant.

It was obviously Berserker; there was no way the being before him could have been summoned as anything else. Standing at nearly nine feet tall, the woman's body was thick and bulky, her arms alone as thick around as tree trunks; that much was clear even through the thick armour that she wore, forged from ragnite and etched in places with spirals. Her hair, thick and tangled strands of liquid silver had been tied behind her head in a ragged ponytail, a few free strands falling across her back and face, which was just as powerful as the rest of her body, with a square jaw and sharp, hawk-like eyes that had been drawn closed. Her skin was white - not pale, but outright albino white - and a scar in the shape of a large, jagged X had been drawn over her face. Hanging from either side of her waist was a gargantuan sword that would have required both hands for Jaeger to so much as lift - but from the look of her thick, calloused, meaty hands alone, she clearly had no trouble using each of them with one hand.

Finally, she opened her eyes, glancing about the room around her until her gaze finally locked on her summoner, causing the general's breath to hitch as he met her gaze.

Her eyes - crimson as blood - were not the eyes of a crazed beast.

Rather, they were cold and calculating, yet burning with an inner fire.

Not the eyes of a mere berserker, but the eyes of a warrior.

They stood like that, staring at one another for a long few minutes before the Servant pointed at the man before her - or more accurately, the Command Seal that blazed upon the back of his hand.

* * *

Cordelia slumped upon the ground, her energy completely drained by the ordeal of completing her summoning. She could barely keep her eyes open by that point; all she wanted to do was sleep.

The ruffle of robes, however, drew her curiosity.

She looked up, her gaze locking upon a male figure of about average height, covered in black robes that nearly covered his entire body, exposing only his gnarled hands, one of which gripped the staff with which he'd been summoned, the other folded across his thin chest. His skin was almost deathly pale, with his veins visible through the white, his long hair white like snow and thin. His skin was wrinkled and burned, covered in scars, and his eyes - eyes as black as night, far from cold but giving off something far worse - were empty. Completely devoid of emotion as he studied her. A dagger hung from his waist, and the ancient pattern of the Darcsens had been etched into the edges of his cloak and robes.

While he appeared no older than thirty, his voice, posture and skin gave off the impression that he was well over seventy.

"A member of the traitorous clan, eh?" he let out a mirthless chuckle, his voice an aged and somewhat sickly rasp, "well, I suppose it could be worse."

He pointed his staff at her, his lips twisted in a cruel smirk, "I am the Servant Caster of the Holy Grail War. I ask of you..."

* * *

Georg Von Damon felt his eye twitch as he glared at the being that dared to stand before him, rather than the mighty Servant that he had meant to bring forth from the Throne of Heroes.

This was NOT what he had wanted to summon.

The first major problem was that all the Valkyria of legend had been women. _Female_.

The being before him was most obviously _not_ a woman.

Standing at about six feet in height, the man was slim, but toned; a body built for agility and speed rather than power. In either one of his hands, a long black spear was held loosely in his grasp, one a little over three feet long, the other just under five feet in length. His black leather armour was rather formfitting, allowing for ease of movement, and etched with the patterns that belonged to the Darcsens –_Darcsens!_ – and a black belt wrapped around his waist and torso, the latter of the two carrying several sets of throwing knives. His skin was fair in colour, with a few scars marring it, and long silver hair that had been tied into a long braid fell down his back, though it was spiked into something similar to a mohawk along the top, pushed forwards over his face.

Finally, he opened his eyes, bloody crimson in colour, staring at the only other being in the room.

"I have answered your summons. I am the Servant Lancer of the Holy Grail War. I ask of you..."

* * *

Captain Varrot breathed heavily as she examined her Servant. Standing six feet tall and clad in a mix of ragnite and leather armour, the woman was most definitely of Valkyrian origin, with long, tangled silver hair and cold, crimson eyes, accompanied by the circlet which had been used for the summoning that now wrapped around her forehead, unmarred by age or battle. What was visible of her skin, however, was heavily marred with scar tissue, the left side of her face particularly ruined, burns nearly forcing her eye – or at least, what was left of the gaping socket – shut. Upon her back was a simple ragnite longbow, and a pair of daggers hung at either side of her waist.

The two sized each other up for a long few seconds before the Servant spoke.

"So the Grail finally decided to let me have a go, huh?" she cracked her neck, "finally, some good news. That leaves one last issue to resolve," she stared at the captain, smirking slightly, "I am the Servant Archer of the Holy Grail War. I ask of you..."

* * *

Oxford stood resolute before the being that he had summoned, head bowed somewhat, as though humbled by her presence, even though he still stood a good foot taller than her.

Her ragnite armour shone a bright silver in the moonlight, easily bending to her form and proudly bearing Valkyrian spiral that was so common to their culture. Her hair had been cut at about shoulder length in a sort of bob, and upon either side of her waist, the Crimson blades now hung, completely unmarred by the march of time.

Leona of the Crimson Blades. Oxford's ancestor.

She opened her eyes, raising them to stare her descendant in the eye.

"I heard your summons, and I answered. I am the Servant Rider of the Holy Grail War. I ask of you..."

* * *

Grimes hadn't been expecting anything in particular when he went to summon his Servant. But he knew that what he summoned would not disappoint him.

The man stood at a little over six feet, dressed in robes of dark crimson that had been etched with symbols of the most blasphemous nature. What was visible of his body was covered in scars of a similar nature, carved into his skin with purpose rather than in battle, even upon his face. His skin was pale, his hair, silver, tied back in a long pony tail that ran the length of his spine, and in his right hand, he gripped a ragnite staff that was tipped with a drill-like component similar to that of a Valkyrian lance, and under his other arm, he gripped a book bound in what looked like human skin. When he opened his eyes, the red eyes of the Valkyria stared out at the madman, showing off a depth of madness that sent chills down Grimes' spine.

"So... I take it you summoned me?" his voice was somewhat easy going for someone of his level of sanity, "I guess there's only one thing left for me to do before we get started, if that's the case," he spun the staff slightly, grunting, "I am the Servant Caster of the Holy Grail War. I ask of you..."

* * *

Alicia Melchiott swallowed nervously as her Servant sized her up with black eyes colder than any mountain glacier.

The woman before her was just a couple of inches over six feet tall, dressed in simple black armour that covered every part of her body aside from her head (though she carried a helmet under her arm), though it failed to hide the fact that she had a rather voluptuous figure; the only feature of the black metal that stood out was the golden trim that it bore, the same as the Ghostblades, which now dangled from either side of the woman's hips. Her long black hair had been tied back in a series of heavily elaborate braids, held in place by the Darcsen headband that wrapped around her forehead and reaching down to her middle back. Her pale skin caught the moonlight, giving it almost a porcelain sheen, and her armour reflected the moon like a mirror.

The woman said nothing, merely staring at her summoner with something close to indifference before finally sighing.

"So, you're the one who summoned me... I can't say I think much of you, at first glance. You reek of ragnite, though... I don't like the way you smell. Too similar to the Valkyrur... those lying, hypocritical whores."

Alicia swallowed again, more nervous than ever as her Servant continued, "I am the Servant Saber of the Holy Grail War. I ask of you..."

* * *

Gregor smiled with pride as he stared at his Servant, proud to have summoned forth one of the mighty Valkyrur forth to aid him on his quest to greatness.

She was beautiful, in possession of a skinny, yet healthy figure, just shy of six feet tall and appearing to be in her early twenties, with long silver hair that reached the middle of her spine accompanying a ragnite suit of armour. Bearing a bow across her back (befitting her position within the Archer class) and a longsword at her side, her expression was somewhat pensive, uncertainty hidden behind her cold crimson eyes.

"I am the Servant Archer of the Holy Grail War. I ask of you..."

* * *

Faldio blinked as he took in the boy before him, wondering what exactly he'd done wrong in the ritual.

There was no way, just... absolutely NO way that this... kid was a Heroic Spirit.

Standing at just over four and a half feet tall, the boy, no older than fourteen, stood, scratching at an itch behind his ear, accidentally brushing some of his light silver hair into his eyes, most of which had been tied back in a small pony tail. He wore something similar in nature to civilian's clothing, the only things about it that really stood out were its somewhat old-fashioned nature, its overall ragged appearance, the sets of throwing knives that hung on belts that were wrapped around his thighs, waist, torso and arms, a particularly large knife that hung from the right side of his waist, and the ragnite panpipes that Faldio had used for the summoning that were now hanging around the boy's neck. His eyes were dark red in colour, flashing with annoyance at his itch, before flaring with new-found curiosity upon noticing his summoner.

The Servant grinned, bringing his hand up in a wave, "Hiya! I'm the Servant Assassin for this Holy Grail War! You summoned me, right!?"

Faldio felt his eye twitch, already seeing his life flashing before his eyes.

There was no doubt about it.

He was doomed.

"I'll take your stunned silence as a yes," the boy's grin lessened to a smirk as he took out one of his knives, tossing it in the air absentmindedly, "just gotta finish setting the contract, then."

His expression turned serious, sending chills down Faldio's spine, "I ask of you..."

* * *

Selvaria stared, unsure what to expect from the Servant that stood before her, ready to issue the use of a Command Seal within an instant. While it was evident that the woman was most certainly a Valkyria, there was very little else to indicate who she was or what her intentions were.

The Servant stood several inches taller than her summoner, her build somewhat slim, but well-endowed, her weapon - a swordstaff that was taller than its wielder, tipped on both ends by a foot long blade, complete with spiral-shaped engravings upon the blades and staff – held loosely in her grip as she examined the smaller woman. Her dark silver hair was tied back in a high pony tail, kept in place by a red ribbon in a style vaguely reminiscent of the countries far to the east of the Empire. Her red eyes reflected little emotion, and her silver armour was trimmed with blue and gold, shining in the silver light of the moon. Her skin was pale, but failed to hide the thin trio of scars that caressed her left eye. The pendant that Selvaria had used to summon her forth now dangled in place from around her neck.

The Servant spoke, her voice cool, calm, collected, "I am the Servant Lancer of the Holy Grail War. I ask of you..."

* * *

Isara Gunther stared at her Servant in shock, clearly not expecting to have summoned someone of Darcsen lineage.

Appearing to be in his mid twenties, he stood more than a full foot taller than she did at a height of over six feet. His torso and arms were bare, showing off his strong, but clearly agile build, his tanned skin covered in scars of all sorts that did nothing to retract from his features. A belt bearing the symbol of the Darcsen had been tied around his waist in a sash, keeping the baggy beige leather pants he wore in place. His black leather boots showed signs of worn age. His medium length hair caught the moonlight, reflecting it, giving it a somewhat white sheen. His powerful jaw was set as he studied her, his eyes cold, calculating.

She swallowed, unsure of what he was going to do.

Then he shocked her with his next decision.

He _bowed_, bringing his hand across his chest like a gentleman, "I am the Servant Rider of the Holy Grail War," he straightened, his head still bowed slightly in respect, "I ask of you..."

* * *

Prince Maximilian Gaius Von Reginrave was underwhelmed. While he honestly didn't really care which class he summoned for a Servant so long as he could put it to use, he had still been hoping for one of the three Knight classes - Saber, Lancer or Archer - in hopes of further ensuring his victory.

The Servant he summoned was clearly not any of those classes.

She was tall for a woman, with medium length silver hair and crimson eyes that were actually colder than his own. Upon her forehead, a jagged scar rested, accompanied by a rather large burn upon her right arm, from her shoulder to her bicep. Her build was slim, but still reasonably muscled, and covered in rather lightly weighted armour. She stared at him frozen gaze before speaking.

"I am the Servant Assassin of the Holy Grail War. I ask of you..."

* * *

Welkin coughed slightly, breathing heavily as he forced himself to look at his Servant, somewhat fearful of who he had summoned.

His fear was well founded.

The woman before him stood six and a half feet tall with a rather robust figure, her arms folded across her chest as she glared down at him through eyes as black as the pits of hell itself. Her snow white hair fell about her head and shoulders in a thickly tangled mane, seeming to resemble something closer to thick fur than actual hair, kept out of her eyes by a ragged Darcsen headband. Her skin was pale, and a trio of thick scars ran on a diagonal across her face, as though some animal had tried to claw their way through her skull to get at its contents. She wore a long black leather coat that reached down past her calves, flapping slightly in the wind; underneath, she wore a simple set of black leather armour; a pair of black pants and boots, and a sort of torso armour that served as a form of vest, cut off at the shoulders and waist. Hanging from her belt and in slots within her coat were a series of long knives - from small throwing knives to massive three foot long war knives, the woman seemed to have every possible type of knife on her person. She wore a simple arm guard on either one of her arms over the sleeves of her coat, and a sword (if you could really call the solid slab of sharpened ragnite she carried a sword) had been slung across her back; shaped like a gargantuan knife that had crossed itself with a cleaver, it easily bigger than Welkin was in height, and as wide across as both of his hands stretched fingertip to fingertip. Around her neck dangled the necklace that Welkin had used for the ritual, reaching her collarbone.

For a time, neither one of them spoke, Welkin too nervous to speak, the woman seeming to be waiting for him to start.

Finally, she sighed, "so... you're the idiot who summoned me?"

He swallowed heavily, causing her eyes to narrow, a small smirk playing on the edges of her mouth, "too scared to answer me, huh? Can't exactly say that I'm surprised," she licked slightly at her teeth, clearly savoring his fear before continuing, "well... I have to say this anyways, so let's try again with an easier question, hmm?"

She took a step towards him, making Welkin swallow again when he realized just how much she towered over him, "I'm the Servant Berserker of the Holy Grail War. I ask of you..."

* * *

The single question was simple, but powerful, resonating throughout each and every summoner as the Servant asked them thus;

"... are you my Master?"

* * *

*Kata; a sequence of techniques used by martial artists to practice their style of combat.

**The Holy Grail is an immensely powerful artifact, capable of unwinding and rewriting existence itself; it is no exaggeration to say the fate of the world is riding on the outcome of the Holy Grail War.


End file.
